Songs of Skyrim
by Fluffybutt0ns
Summary: Each tale has a beginning, a journey to unfold with a myriad of difficult choices to make, burdens to carry, friendships to form and rivalries to fight over. Some tales indulge a hero that vanquishes a looming darkness, others foretell the destruction laid bare under evil's reign. This is a tale of survival, a test of morals in Skyrim's unforgiving land of strife and war.
1. Chapter 1: Humble Beginnings

Sharp winds viciously glide through Skyrim's cold air, howls carried in the breeze akin to wolves closing in from beyond the horizon without warning. No warmth is to be found in the northern lands, not from the elements forsaken by Kyne herself, no sought after mercy to be seen in the eyes of men and women passing by, no peace to feel for the eyes of judgement lay fixated upon the body. Cruel, cold, heartless malice become a frightening comfort when rags adorn the flesh and ropes bind the hands of the condemned, a platoon of Imperial Legionnaires escort a carriage of Stormcloak rebels who proudly resemble the stubborn icy climate in their leather garb and blue uniforms, that of Hjaalmarch Hold. Amongst these rebels sits in solitude and silence a rather young Bosmer male: Soft skin with what once was a healthy shine of oak-brown hair now only boasts a dirty, grime-ridden mane, a piercing glow of vibrant hazel lingers within his eyes that under normal circumstances would gleam like gemstones; yet today is far beyond the ordinary.

All the Bosmer is capable of thinking about is the impending reality of his situation, trapped in ragged garbs that reek of sweat and musk, damp at the touch and losing all colour of the cloth to a grime-ridden shade of green and brown, as if the attire had spent its lifetime being thrown into moist soil repeatedly, having to surrender to horseshoes trampling over it and carriage wheels breaking its surface with unrelenting stampedes of marching soldiers to accompany it all. Such was a reality for the Bosmer as he contemplates his life choices, what could he do to escape his imprisonment? How could he narrowly evade an interpretation of justice like so many times in the past? The more those harrowing croaks of wooden wheels eternally spinning rang through his heightened ears, the greater his sorrow grew, the deeper his terror sank as the reality eventually became too real to deny: He is not escaping this time. Judgement has finally come for the convicted Mer as the grim truth of his destination became clear… The headsman's block.

" _... I'm going to die here…?"_ He thought to himself, alone with no family to miss him, no beloved to mourn him, no friends to come rushing forth and lift him from the shackles that bind him. Yet the carriage rode on and the soldiers remained silent as the grave that awaited him. No saviour is to come for this Mer, so what is he to do other than pray for his soul to be shown a mercy that his body has been denied? After what seemed to be an age passing by, those damnable croaks of frost-bitten wood finally ceased its torturous lament, only to give way to a fresh demon: The unmistakable song of a freshly sharpened blade, whistling through the bitterly frozen air. The Executioner, wreathed in his stitched black cowl gazed upon the victims of his beloved Axe with what could only be described as a macabre grin of demented satisfaction, his eyes hungrily scanning over the bodies of the Stormcloak prisoners and the Bosmer alike, as if judging how swift his blade could sink through the flesh, how many swings might it take for the blade to tear through bone and sinew.

The young Bosmer began to tremble in his rotten, degenerative rags, still latching onto the now impossible odds that something would rescue him from this Gods-forsaken fate. The world around him grew silent, bodies moved and wind blew tapestries wild from their metallic holsters yet the only sound audible in the Bosmer's mind was his own heartbeat, thumping with vigour within his chest to a point where he believed it sought to burst out. At least such a demise would be by his own reckoning, not that of an Imperial lapdog whipped into bowing to the whims of the Thalmor. As the Bosmer's eyes beheld the fate of a Stormcloak rebel, whose lips made out the final cry of " _To Sovngarde!"_ before the gleaming axe came crashing down upon the man's nape, splitting the flesh asunder and obliterating the bones with ease: One fell swoop and the Stormcloak soldier's severed head rolled along the cobblestone path now stained crimson with Nordic blood, an unfortunate reminder that the heated Civil War is only good for the destruction of Skyrim's sons and daughters.

* * *

North, east, south, west, no direction held comfort for the condemned man as he fearfully took in his surroundings: mountainous slopes of rock and grass dotted the landscape, short yet lively trees grew from the soil and the sound of a river endlessly thrashing against the rocks echoed in the distance. He sought out structures, rooftops of distant homes or battlements of a ruined keep, anything to show even a chance of civilization nearby only for his elven eyes to deceive him. No settlements were close, this Imperial campsite remained the only known dwelling, deep in the wildlands. He counted three large tents, decorated in traditional Imperial crimson with golden tapestries and a blazing etching of the Dragon Symbol that became synonymous with the Empire of Cyrodiil.

The Bosmer grew desperate, sweat began to form upon his finely sculpted brow, audible breaths began to escape his thin, cracking lips as his turn for the Headsman's Axe drew. As he took his first step, he prayed to the Gods of Aetherius, he thought back on the news of Helgen's mythical destruction at the hands of a remnant of history: A Dragon attacking Skyrim, returning from ages of silence and mystique only to burn down a seemingly random town in Whiterun Hold. Such desperate pleads came to his mind, would a Dragon do him the same courtesy? Could an ancient Akaviri serpent of the skies swoop down, cast its shadow upon the Legionnaires and let out its triumphant Thu'um to incinerate his captives in a blaze of fire and fury? The Gods were silent and no shadow cast itself upon the bloodied stone ground, which made the Bosmer clench his teeth. What else can a man do as death beckons him?

Falling to his knees, staring at the bloodied block of wood with a sickening curve to rest his neck upon, he placed his head down and tried to hold back the tears in his eyes, wanting at least the comfort of knowing he died bravely, even if his soul knew it to be a falsehood. His body clenched, the stench of blood filling his nostrils, sweat soaking his flesh and veins becoming visible upon his face as he braced for the Axe to pierce his neck and part his head from his shoulders… A scream followed, but not his own. His eyes swiftly opened to see the Executioner fallen to the ground with an iron arrow lodged into his left eye socket, furiously thrashing and flailing on the ground in pain before succumbing to the wound. " _FOR SKYRIM!"_ A voice yells and the Stormcloaks hearken: A crescendo of victorious roars echo through the wind as a contingency of Stormcloak rebels jump into the open, engaging the Imperial Legionnaires that kept the prisoners in chains. Steel clashes against steel, squelches of blood escaping fleshy tears resound, sparks of blades in battle circulate all around as chaos takes reign through the Execution camp, allowing the Bosmer to frantically crawl over to the dead Executioner. Using the blood-stained Axe, he cuts himself free with hasty thrusts back and forth to sever the ropes that kept his hands bound. His head spinning, eyes taking in the battle that surrounds him: Stormcloak soldiers brutally clashing steel and brawn against the trained Imperials, it quickly became apparent that the Stormcloaks outnumbered the Imperials in this violent skirmish.

Spotting an Imperial archer nocking a finely crafted steel arrow, the death-defying Bosmer took the chance to charge at the unsuspecting Legionnaire as he prepared to lay waste to a Rebel: Furious cries and aggressive shouts escaped his throat as he plunged his fist repeatedly into the archer's neck, swiftly crushing the man's larynx. He had no other choice but to fall into the cold stone and suffocate to death as the Mer scavenged his longbow and quiver of arrows, swift to make a retreat after arming himself, for he had no time nor desire to become swept up in a Nord's Civil War: Death was evaded this day and he sought to hide from the reaper's gaze once more. The clashes of steel and men gradually grew silent as the Mer blindly ran in whichever direction was laid bare before him. He ran and ran for what felt like days yet no dusk settled nor any breaks of dawn lit up the skies. Eventually, he stopped and rested against some rocks off the road, though he had no time to do anything other than gasp in shock, coming close to hyperventilating as he processed what happened. Moments away from an execution, hope had been lost and in the middle of trying to accept death, his fortune became apparent and a narrow escape during a bloodied skirmish. Surprised, startled, grateful to be alive and terrified about all of it, the younger Mer laughs and cries in joy as he rests in the wilderness, for once happy to let the waters flow from his eyes and bathe his narrow cheeks.


	2. Chapter 2: Choosing a Side

**Chapter 2: Choosing a Side**

 **4E 201, 6th of Rain's Hand**

" _Anya! Wake up! Sun's out, you're going to be late!"_ Came the loud, energetic voice of a young man brimming with enthusiasm and excitement, his fist pounding against the surface of a grey, wooden door coated with straw and ropes. Behind the closed door rests a young woman sleeping, pale as Secunda's glow with fiery auburn-red hair long enough to pass her shoulders. She tiredly rubs her healthy brown eyes with a squeaky yawn, finding some strength to crawl out of her cosy bedsheets to dress herself. _"Anya, get up! Come on, you'll miss their arrival!"_

" _I'm up, I'm up! Just... Let me get dressed please."_ The youthful woman politely asked the voice behind her door, sighing as her soft cherry-red lips curve into a happy smile. She combs her petite fingers through the freshly awoken scarlet mane to ensure nothing has begun to knot, revealing her soft features and sharp cheekbones, the visage of a young, beautiful woman with an admirable future ahead of her. She seems keen for the circumstances that the younger man demands her presence for, looking around her comfortable bedroom for anything out of place, perhaps a habit of hers. Humble and quaint, she boasts a wooden dresser, wardrobe, a bed with green linen sheets and a simple chest to store her valuables. Approaching the wardrobe she reaches for a middle shelf, pulling free a yellow-golden robe that flows smoothly around her arms, soft as silk with a clean, vibrant shine to the fabric. She clears her throat after donning the lavish robes, walking towards the dresser only to kneel down before it. Closing her eyes and clasping her hands together, she quietly utters a prayer to the totem resting atop the dresser: A shrine to the Goddess of love, Mara. The personal shrine stands a small height of thirty centimetres, a circular structure ridden with overlapping curls of stone hidden behind a four-point cross, each tip facing a direction. Amidst the centre of it all is a sculpture of the Goddess herself, a feminine face between the circular body and cross combined as if she were the heart of the Shrine, much like how the Goddess' servants pride themselves with spreading the word of love through Her teachings, perhaps they too seek to be the heart of those they meet and touch with kindred sermons of respect and peace. _"L_ _ive soberly and peacefully. Honour your parents, and preserve the peace and security of home and family._ _Above all else, be good to one another. Bless you, Lady Mara."_

Her prayer complete, Anya finally opens her door only to find the young man impatiently standing outside of it, he bore a great resemblance to the lady even down to the same shade of auburn-red hair. One swift glance and immediately it became obvious the two were twins, lest the Gods elected to cast their faces together on different bodies for divine amusement. _"I'm awake Alain."_ She utters softly, smiling at her brother's affinity for the coming celebrations. _"They''ll be here soon Anya! We're going to see them! Do you think the Emperor would be there too?!"_

" _I don't think the Emperor would come up from Cyrodiil all the way to Whiterun just to watch an Imperial Garrison arrive here."_

" _What about General Tullius?! Come on, I want to see the leaders of the Imperial Legion! They just -have- to recruit me, I'd be the best Legionnaire they'd get!"_

" _I'm sure the Battle-Borns would miss you dearly little brother."_ Anya quips with a smile. _"Come on, let's go to the gates."_ She suggests, every word spoken from her lips echo with a serenity seldom encountered in Tamriel, least of all in Skyrim. Perhaps it is due to her love for Lady Mara that Anya's behaviour and personality is that of a good Samaritan, always wanting to help those in need and to spread a gospel of care and companionship to those around her, to try and sway thoughts of violence and strife from the people she meets, Ulfric's war has caused enough senseless death and destruction as it is.

The duo descend their narrow stairs, greeted by their parents who seemingly are already prepared for the arrival of the Imperials: Anya's father sporting a fine brown overcoat with tanned seams decorating much of the garb that compliments his loose but clean, healthy brown head of hair. Both Anya and Alain resemble their mother quite closely, clearly favouring her blood when the day of their birth came for she proudly dons crimson hair like her two children, albeit much shorter and neatly cropped into a bun. She has dressed similarly to her husband with the exception of a fur mantle wreathed around her shoulders as fine epaulettes befitting a noblewoman. The father glances to his son, furrowing his brows in a manner of confusion and disappointment, speaking in a bewildered tone, _"Alain... What in Stendarr's name are you wearing?"._

" _I'm not going to dress up fancy for the soldiers father, I'm going straight to their Legate to prove my worth to the Empire!"_ The young son boldly claims, though his garb could indeed be improved upon: A mere linen shirt tucked beneath an apron and commonplace brown breeches, he bore the appearance of a man who lived his days as a Blacksmith's apprentice, as opposed to the Imperial Legion recruit he sought to be. _"You won't impress any Legates looking like that."_ His father claimed, shaking his head with a condescending tut that only a parent could deliver without scorn from its recipient. _"Just you watch father, I'll order a sword from Adrianne! She'll forge me a weapon to practice with!"_

" _You have never held a sword in your life Alain. Calm your horses lad, the Legion's going nowhere."_ The boy's father reverted to a consoling tone, wishing the boy would restrain his near insatiable desire to fight in the Empire despite being fresh-faced to the horrors of war. Such is the norm for young men who seek glory and valour, the concept of serving the Legion or liberate Skyrim as one of Ulfric's Stormcloak Rebels proves to be propaganda within itself, fight like a true Nord or go to Sovngarde for your bravery shown in the field of conflict. Impossible for Alain to heed either call however, for he and his family are Bretons.

The family open the doors of their home to the streets of Whiterun's Plains District: Merchant stalls are blooming with business in a compact line throughout the district, every cobblestone slab in the ground is covered with men and women browsing for naturally harvested or expertly hand-crafted goods. Hunters selling fresh game, jewellers advertising exotic pendants or rings imported from all across the surface of Nirn, the list is endless. Excited chatter litter the streets with whispers and conjecture sprawling uncontrollably throughout the citizens of the city. Scorching sunlight dominates the morning, the people of Whiterun chatter about the impending garrison of Imperial Legionnaires to grace their fine, humble city under instruction of General Tullius and Jarl Balgruuf the Greater. The family of Bretons wade through the crowds, eagerly seeking to watch the soldiers arrive with pride in their hearts, for this family believe the Empire is the best hope for Skyrim's chaos to finally abate, ending the conflict once and for all in order to face the true threat to freedom in Tamriel...

At long last the Breton family of four arrive at Whiterun's main gates, surrounding their fine city lay the ancient battlements of white stone that stand tall as monuments of endurance this great city has maintained over the course of history, a feat that will only repeat itself if and when the Hold is subject to sieges and battle once more. Crowds of citizens and Guards alike line up outside of the gates to welcome the arrival of the Imperial Garrison, until an orchestra of carriage wheels and horseshoes clash against stone silence is the dominion of Whiterun, save for the flickering fires that light up the main gates in bulky, durable braziers. _"Ambroise!"_ An elderly man's voice yells out, causing the Breton father to turn his head to the right, looking upon the gentleman calling his name. _"Olfrid Battle-Born. Good to see you friend."_ Ambroise says with confidence, offering a friendly smile as well as his hand, of which the Battle-Born patriarch gladly shakes with a hoarse chuckle. _"Good to see you and your family here on this brilliant day. Patriots to the Emperor, every one of us here."_ The clan's elder claims, turning his attention to Ambroise's wife. _"Belene, lovely to see you my dear."_

" _Olfrid, wonderful to see you again."_ Belene says with sincerity, smiling at the Battle-Born patriarch. Olfrid then turns to the twins Ambroise stands beside. _"Alain and Anya, I see so little of you two, I hope you are doing well?"_

" _Yes, thank you sir."_ Anya replies gently with a polite smile adorned on her soft features, though any attempts at further discussion ends when her twin counterpart leaps at the opportunity to discuss Imperial patriotism with the city's biggest Legion fanatic. _"Olfrid Battle-Born, it's always a great honour speaking to you. I'll be joining these Legionnaires one day, I vow it!"_ The declaration simply made Olfrid chuckle, if not without a dry tone due to his aged vocal cords. _"Hah! Excellent news my boy. You grew up to be a smart young man, seeing the hope of Skyrim's future within our glorious Empire! Pay no heed to those... Filthy Stormcloak lies, or those foolish beggars in the Gray-Mane clan!"_

" _Yes, I'm sure Alain will be a fine soldier one day."_ Ambroise laments, despite the prideful words his tone is all but confident for the boy's aspirations, nobody seemed to heed his concern however as all attention waned from social conventions to the horizon, for a bellowing horn echoes throughout the Hold with distant clanking of steel and cartwheels. It took no time at all for the garrison forces to arrive, adorned in silver regalia and Dragon symbols etched into the breastplates, breathing the essence of the Empire with their uniforms alone. The sight of this sizable garrison awed the bystanders as the Imperials were greeted into Whiterun with citizens yelling and praising the arrival of the Emperor's Legion. Auxiliaries and Legates alike all smiled with pride as they waved to the warm reception. Many Bretons were among the soldiers' ranks, Nords too filled the uniforms of the Emperor's predominantly Imperial military might passing through to Whiterun city, on their way into the city's districts.

* * *

" _Hey, how do you feel about this?"_ Leaned in one Auxiliary, deep in the centre of the arriving forces to speak to his rider compatriot, a toned and confident woman if her facial structure and posture when riding a horse is any indication. Her heavy Imperial Legion armour is adorned with a golden ribbon fixated to the breastplate, indicating a higher rank in the Legion that complimented the crimson kilt that covered the soldier's armoured thighs. Indeed, the ensemble of the Imperial Legion boasted a fusion of combat readiness and sophistication, eloquently wading through the battlefield with grace and dignity. She turns her head towards the Auxiliary, keeping her helmet firmly on her head. _"Keep quiet Auxiliary. We are still on duty."_ She boldly states, turning her attention forward to follow the rest of the garrison before her. Swiftly the units all come to a halt as the Legate leading the brigade orders the men and women to disembark. The citizens that gathered to watch them slowly depart and return to their lives and careers, while Imperial soldiers enter the city and settle in, allowing the commanding officer to confer with the Jarl. The same cocky Auxiliary approaches the Quaestor woman who now removes her helmet with a deep sigh, glad to be relieved of the damned thing and allowing her deep scarlet hair to flow gracefully in Skyrim's wind, cut at the back with an angled edge, appearing as sharply trimmed crimson daggers for hair. The light of the sun shows the woman's natural beauty and defined features: A bold jawline with pronounced cheekbones giving her a precise, chiselled expression complimented by gorgeous emerald eyes contrasting pale skin bequeathed with soft freckles throughout her flesh. She shakes her head slowly and looks at the Auxiliary, instead of dismissing him however she smirks and shakes the boy's hand with a friendly chuckle, releasing her authoritative tone for a much more friendly and sociable demeanour. _"So?"_ The man asks, reiterating his previous question. _"I've only ever been in Skyrim four times, all of which were spent consulting in Solitude or overseeing military shipments."_ She laments, gazing around at the rolling plains of Whiterun Hold, the simplistic beauty of a lone Keep entrenched by ancient stone walls that even now hold their might against the machinations of conflict and the danger of Dragons soaring through the skies. Her eyes take in the enthralling wilderness stretching for miles, smiling as she looks to distant trees beyond the tundra. _"I like it. Simple is better sometimes."_

" _Wish I could say the same, I hate Whiterun. Smells of cow shit all the time."_

" _Yes... That tends to be the case when you wander through farmlands."_

" _Doesn't mean I have to like it."_ The younger man's quip only makes the scarlet-haired woman shrug as she begins to polish her longsword, a razor sharp piece of art moulded from steel to be an instrument of the Emperor's will, either through the hand that wields it or the blade itself plunging into the Empire's foes who might dare to foolishly stand against progression.

" _Hey Zedrick, Celina!"_ Another voice cries out, a Nord Auxiliary whom sits besides the two as they discuss Whiterun and their newfound homes. _"Did I miss much?"_ Asks the Nord soldier, looking between the two currently seated. _"Nothing really. Going on about how appalling Whiterun is because of cow shit."_

" _You mean -you- were."_ Celina swiftly corrected the nitpicky man. _"Hah. This is your typical noble turned soldier here. Silver spoon stuck up his pompous ass all his life."_

" _Quit it Ortis!"_ Protested Zedrick, only for the Nord to continue berating the boy as Celina sighed with an uninterested look in her face. It did not take much effort from her at all to slip away from the squabbling boys without being noticed. Celina gripped her sheathed sword, finding an empty area outside of the gates to train in peace, coming to a small lonesome oasis of water and a glistening tree growing from the centre of it. She spends a moment with her head held high to the heavens, closing her emerald green eyes to utter a prayer to herself. _"Serve and obey your Emperor. Study the Covenants. Worship the Eight, do your duty, and heed the commands of the saints and priests._

 _Above all else, be good to one another. Akatosh guide me."_ Immediately after concluding her prayer, she lunges her dominant right hand onto the leather-bound hilt of her longsword, wrenching it from the scabbard that shielded the majestic blade. Moving into a rhythm, she slashed and plunged the blade at empty air, each manoeuvrer causing sharp hisses to ripple through the air, a song of steel worthy of a warrior maiden blessed by the Gods to heed the call of triumph that awaited the Quaestor.

Further training Celina pursued, stylishly twirling her body with her arms raised, gripping the hilt of her blade with both hands. She practices her footwork, pacing her strafes and lunging steps before bringing the blade overhead to deliver a metaphorical crushing slash to an ill armoured skull. She immediately follows the vertical slash with a rising diagonal slice, twisting her torso as if she were expertly dispatching one foe only to gain the upper hand and decisive victory over another interloper seeking to strike from behind, the coward's repertoire. Sweat began to form beneath her arched brow, the grip on her blade tightened, the fury in her swings grew more ferocious with every slice into the wind, battle-ready fervour heightened with every step taken in her practice routines. Focused to the letter, Celina set loose an unbridled crescendo of strikes and flurries to the imaginary foes. _**"You can't join the Legion! You listen to me right now!"**_ A voice echoed through the woman's mind, plaguing her every movement, haunting her even in sweet solitude. _**"You will not amount to anything like your whore mother!"**_ Celina began to grunt aggressively, her eloquent combat prowess shifted into a barbaric assault, without direction and gradually losing precision to the point of unpredictable carnage. Woe to the rebel who confronts Celina in this state as she begins to perform her combat techniques with impressive speed and ferocity. An outsider beholding this strong, confident woman would merely see vigorous training regiments, but to Celina she battles demons not from the Realm of Oblivion but her very psyche. Within her mind the echo of a hand forcefully pressed into flesh resonates in her head, with the passing words _**"YOU WILL OBEY ME!"**_ creeping into her focus before she ceases it all with a plunging strike to the soil beneath her. Silence. The melody of a foe vanquished, or a forlorn peace before pain's inevitable return? Celina takes a moment to catch her breath as she stands and pulls the longsword out of the ground, wiping off remnants of grass and soil before she returns to camp to drink something cold.

* * *

" _Anya, good day to you!"_ Smiled Danica Pure-Spring as Anya entered the Temple of Kynareth, to which Anya politely smiled back with her sweet as rain voice soothingly returning pleasantries with the hooded Priestess. _"Kynareth smile on you, Danica. Do you need my help today?"_

" _Your timing couldn't have been better, two of the Guards have sustained wounds recently and I already have a patient under my care. Could you see that they're tended enough to sleep well tonight?"_

" _Of course I will."_ Answered Anya, who immediately proceeded to a nearby cupboard to gather some medical apparatus, such cupboards were found scattered around the Temple which largely consisted of stone beds and space for worshipping the Goddess of the Winds, patterned windows allowed the light of the sun to illuminate the Temple in scattered god-rays, beautifully so. Danica approached her with a cautionary tone to her voice. _"Gjalder's one of them. I know how you feel about him, but regardless of personal feelings our duties as Priestesses come first."_ Anya sighed and nodded, maintaining her gentle, innocent tone of voice. _"I am a Priestess of the Divines first, Danica. I will not let my personal feelings get in the way of a soul in need."_

" _I know."_ Danica said, smiling. Anya nodded to her softly as she gathered what she needed to treat most wounds the Guards frequently require mending: Bowls of fresh water to rinse out bandages, tongs to aid in the unfortunate removal of arrows and a clean needle with string and scissors for suturing injuries. Anya approached the man she spends many days being gawked by, Gjalder Iron-Blood. A Nord full of pride and no sense for respecting anybody who isn't a fighter. Handsome, to be sure, his flowing locks of golden hair sway magnificently with every step and his strong, squared jaw certainly succeeds in drawing in women who seek a capable man in their lives. _"Anya my rose, how fortunate I am to be tended by such a radiant beauty such as yourself."_

" _Hello to you too Gjalder. Can you please show me your wound?"_

" _Of course, it's here just... Just above my hip."_ Gjalder said with a grimace, though despite gritting his teeth through a sharp strike to his side, the Nord insists on maintaining his bravado, taking every opportunity to stare into Anya's soft features as she tends to his wound. Anya procures a linen bandage to replace the man's dirty fabrics, dousing the older wrap into a bowl of water. _"We were patrolling in the north-east reaches of the Hold... Then out of nowhere, a group of Bandits jumped on us Anya. They came out of nowhere, armed to the-"_ Gjalder halts his storytelling as Anya washes out the wound with clean water, pat-drying the man's toned and muscular abdomen of excess moisture. _"S-sorry..."_ She mutters, despite her feelings against his unwanted advances she cannot help but regret any and all pain he might feel from the wound. Truly, her servitude to Mara is one of genuine sincerity with firm, adamant beliefs in the Divines. _"Hah, have no fear my rose. I can take a few hits!"_ He boasted, much to the dismay of Anya who found him as impressive as a wet carrot. _"...There we were, surrounded by about... Six of them, to our three. Common bandits who were up against Whiterun Guards! We could take them, and we did! We took them out with ease, especially me. I got four of them to the ground before one got a sneaky stab in with his butter knife."_ Gjalder happily regaled his story of valour and prowess, all the while Anya inspected the washed out wound, which has fortunately ceased to bleed.

" _This might feel uncomfortable Gjalder, I'm going to suture your stab wound."_

" _Fair Priestess, nothing is uncomfortable with you."_ Gjalder says, looking directly into Anya's eyes as she rolls her own, reaching for her needle to begin suturing the man's wound. Carefully puncturing the lowest edge of the wound, Anya methodically pulls the needle through the flesh to connect the beginning of the process. Gjalder winces and looks to the handiwork in progress before his eyes settle upon Anya's beautiful features, captivated by her youthful grace and innocence. _"Anya, can I ask you something?"_ Gjalder asks, in a much more serious tone than his previous cocky attitude. Anya raises a brow, startled by the sudden shift in atmosphere. _"Uh... Of course, what is it?"_

" _Why don't you like me?"  
"Excuse me?"_

" _I'm capable, I can provide, I'm easy on the eyes, I've got a good home in the Winds District, I serve our City Guard to protect Whiterun... Yet you reject me. Why?"_

" _I... Can we not talk about this right now, please?"_ Anya said with caution, swallowing nervously. _"I-I don't want to be distracted while stitching your wound."_ Gjalder, fortunately, nodded and allowed her to complete the suturing without any further questions. Anya let out a heavy sigh of relief as she finished with the suture, reaching for the scissors to cut off the excess string. _"You're mended, but please rest for a few days until any stiff sensations have parted, okay?"_

" _Of course."_ Finally reasonable, Anya took the opportunity to depart and clean her used apparatus in a nearby water basin, thoroughly wringing the bloodied bandages to drain them of grime. Nervous about his serious line of questioning, she pauses in her tracks to catch her breath, contemplating the severity this could possibly impose. Will he resort to blackmailing her for her hand? No, surely he wouldn't do that she thought, yet a fear could not help but manifest itself as malicious, conniving plans to thwart Anya's happiness in favour of this Nord gaining a young wife for himself. She shook her head, trying to rationalize her thoughts until one came into her mind: Why is she even thinking this deeply to begin with? Paranoia for a simple, albeit serious, question by a man smitten with a pretty lady? Whatever the answer, she has another patient to heal before the day is out.

* * *

 **The next morning.**

 **4E 201, 7th of Rain's Hand**

Heavy, wooden doors groan with an ancient roar as Celina accompanies her commanding officer and another Quaestor, all of whom enter the gates of Dragonsreach, the grand imposing fortress crowning the city of Whiterun. Home to the legendary fable of Olaf One-Eye capturing the fearsome Dragon Numinex within the very same halls the Imperials walk through. It is hard not to admire the history of the Keep, symmetrical stone pillars surround the interior with expertly woven tan carpets cushioning the heavy soldiers' boots, adorned with golden tassels and trims that reflect the colours of Whiterun's insignia. As the trio of Imperials ascend the stairs, they behold the famous hall of Dragonsreach: Perched aloft the Jarl's Throne is the eldritch skull of the Dragon Numinex, a historical relic of times past where mythos was reality and heroism filled the stomachs of every able-bodied warrior capable of heeding the call of northern steel. A Dunmer woman clad in leather raiments, armed with a finely sharpened steel longsword approaches the trio of soldiers, speaking to them with a gravelly tone layered with authority. _"State your names."_ Fortunate that the guests are trained Imperial soldiers, for the Dunmer's cold stare and fierce demeanour would send any young whelps running to the Throat of the World. She bore crimson orbs for eyes engulfed by serpentine markings etched into her grey flesh, a head of orange-red hair simply swept backwards to avoid obstructing her vision. The intimidating woman keeps a hand coiled around her hilt, staring into the souls of the Imperials. _"Legate Quentin Cipius. The Jarl is expecting me."_ The grizzled Legionnaire responds with an equally confident tone, maintaining his dominant posture though it did nothing to phase the hardened Housecarl. Her blood-red eyes scan the party accompanying the Legate with a judgemental stare, as if discerning their valour and skills before a man's voice resonates behind her. _"Irileth, give the man some room."_

" _Of course, my Jarl."_ The Dunmer states, back stepping to the side of Jarl Balgruuf the Greater whose presence is signalled with a unison of boots clambering and the grinds of iron shifting against uniforms as the Whiterun Palace Guards all stand at attention at Jarl Balgruuf's arrival. The Jarl could easily be spotted in a crowd: Dignified golden hair flowing down his nape with a golden circlet as his crown embedded with a ruby as bright as embers, a rough long goatee beard shrouding his chin but most importantly, the regalia of a Skyrim Jarl which bears royalty and finery upon one mere glance. Soft ocean blue and tree bark brown cloths eloquently fold together into this sophisticated garb with symbolic golden patterns and weaving building much of the robe's design.

" _Welcome to Whiterun, Legate. How many men did you bring?"_

" _Enough men to combat a siege with the supplies to boot."_

" _Good. Let us discuss the matter at hand."_ Jarl Balgruuf wastes no time in planning Whiterun's protection, the shadow of war looming closer and closer by the day and he knows too well Ulfric's intent to show his army's might. He escorts the trio of Imperials beyond the Throne, ascending a set of meticulously clean and tidy stairs to begin a War Council. A regal, elegantly carved and painted table rests between two bookshelves, holding only a large map of Skyrim upon its surface. Legate Quentin circles the table and looks to one of his Quaestors. _"Flags."_ He commands, following swiftly the Quaestor procures a pouch from his bandolier containing a set of twenty small flags: ten of which are red and the other ten blue. Quentin takes them and begins to dot them across the map to Skyrim, putting five of the blue flags in the south-western reaches of Eastmarch, close to the Whiterun border. One blue flag is then placed directly south of Whiterun City, a location that in the real world would be visible immediately after exiting the city gates. The remaining four flags are spread out around the singular flag before the Legate then begins to speak. _"Our scouts have reported a large force of Stormcloaks headed to Whiterun, armed with catapults."_

" _Damn it!"_ Jarl Balgruuf hissed, slamming his fist onto the table showing the man's infamous temper that he became known throughout the Holds for, as well as his deep respect for traditions. Celina, having never met the Jarl of Whiterun before remains slightly startled, but her composure is that of steel refusing to bend or waver. _"Haven't the walls been through enough?! They barely stand as it is!"_

" _They are bringing carriages loaded with clay pots and oils. Ulfric intends to use flame over stone."_

" _So... He wants to take my city with the walls intact. The carnage on the citizens... Irileth!"_ The Jarl beckons his Housecarl over, whom dutifully stands at attention by his side. _"Make sure we have ample water reserves to combat the flames, keep a detachment to do this."_

" _No flames will scorch this city my Jarl, I swear it on my life."_

" _Good. Ulfric will NOT have my city. Not while Balgruuf the Greater sits beneath the Dragon! Cipius,what else have your scouts reported?"_

" _Much of the soldiers are armed with battleaxes, some have blades and shields but many of the rebels intend to bring pain rather than defensive equipment. Stormcloak soldiers are ferocious but undisciplined. They're unpredictable except for one tactic: They'll take any chance to prove themselves a 'true Nord', whatever that means."_ The Jarl scoffs at the Imperial, recognizing the cultural indifference of a man who has spent too little time in Skyrim to understand the Nords and their ways of life, what honours they hold dear and the significance of valour. _"I'll be prepared for them."_ He simply comments. _"Jarl Balgruuf, it is wise if you take no part in the battle, your presence here is-"_

" _Do not command me in my own Hold, Imperial! A true Nord never shys away from a battle. I will defend my Hold with strength or Sovngarde take me! I'll not stand idly by when a usurper burns my home and slaughters my people!"_ Irileth smirks, knowing too well the antics of her Jarl. Celina too cannot help but smile in admiration for the man's fervour. _**'Quite a man, what a shame.'**_ She thinks to herself with a brief, sly grin before she resumes her composure. The Legate begins to speak but ultimately, is swiftly cut off by the Jarl's stubborn nature once more. _"What about those 'Companions', they cou-"_

" _Absolutely not. You puffed up Imperials spend too much time around silk and not enough around your own people! The Companions take no part in the war efforts, their position is delicate here."_

" _I can retract my men if you wish, return to our silks..."_

" _No! No. The Stormcloaks must not succeed. They cannot have Whiterun."_

" _Of which we can agree."_ Quentin finally states an agreement with the fiery Jarl, as the battle plan will soon commence, he turns to Celina whom has spent much of this meeting as a mere escort. _"Quaestors, gather a squad of trusted soldiers. I want two ambush squads, one to manoeuvrer around the Stormcloak's camp to disable the catapults, another hidden within the city. The off-chance that they breach our lines and lower the drawbridge, we cannot let them push further than that. Celina, you stay here in the city with a contingency of your best men. Prepare fortifications at the gates as much as you are able. Castus, you gather your best. When the Stormcloaks arrive, wait for Masser's light and then infiltrate under cover of dark. Do what you are able to make sure the catapults do not rain fire over the city."_

" _How long until they arrive?"_ Jarl Balgruuf asks the question that plagues everyone's mind. War is coming, but the suspense of preparing for it may be too much to bear for the men and women about to risk their lives. _"The enemy draw closer to Whiterun's eastern border. We will see them tomorrow."_

" _Not even a full day... We had better get started."_ Balgruuf nods to Irileth and both she and the Quaestors depart from the War Council to prepare for the siege that is to come.

* * *

 **8 hours before the Stormcloaks arrive.**

" _Idolaf!"_ Alain shouts, approaching the Battle-Born whom readily prepares for the approaching skirmish between Stormcloak invaders and the might of the Imperial Legion. Finally, a chance for the Battle-Borns to take up arms themselves against their sworn enemies, the terrorists that threaten Skyrim's stability. Idolaf, a young and stocked man with broad shoulders and tough skin, luscious blond hair graciously swept backwards. He looks to the younger Breton, smirking at the Legion enthusiast. _"Alain, good to see you."_

" _Are you going to fight?"_

" _Absolutely. A chance to sink my blade into those filthy Stormcloak savages."_

" _I want to fight too! Give me a weapon! Please!"_ Idolaf laughed derisively, though a moment of sizing the boy up he ceased his mocking tone, the determination was clear in the Breton's eyes, a tempest of civil duty that he hadn't seen in anybody inhabiting Skyrim since he saw his own reflection in the lakes. An arrogant perspective to be sure, but little blame can be pinned on him for his Clan is old, rooted in history, well respected, brimming with coin and success. _"Alright. You want to fight? Here, take this."_ Idolaf loosens the bindings on his Imperial longsword's scabbard, removing the sheathed blade from his raiment to offer Alain the weapon. The young boy gasped and gulped nervously, but excitement overwhelmed him and he eagerly reached for the weapon, running his palm over the hilt bound in thick leather. He bestowed freedom to the steel that cried for a worthy hand to wield it, releasing the blade from its scabbard. His eyes grew alight with awe, now feeling more like a man of the Legion instead of the boy who aspired to serve it. _"It's a good weapon Alain, practice with it. We'll make a Legionnaire out of you yet."_ Idolaf said in an encouraging tone, causing Alain to laugh, taking a few practice swings to develop a feel for the weight of the weapon. Naturally. Alain has had little practice so the weapon proved to be a heavy addition, the Breton struggling to keep his feet still as the weapon carried him with each swing.

" _A little heavy for you, isn't it?"_ A woman's voice asked the Breton from behind. He seemed almost captivated by the serenity of her voice, turning around to see Celina standing before him, hands placed upon her hips as she had been watching Alain practice with the sword. _"Oh! Sorry ma'am, I-"_

" _Sorry for what?"_ She quickly responds, causing Alain to stumble and stutter in his vocabulary, what exactly was he sorry about? Nervously trying to respond only for Celina to smirk and do the deed herself, saving him any further embarrassment. _"How much practice have you had with that?"_ She asks him a rhetorical question: One glance at his mediocre swings is enough proof to know it's his first time ever wielding a weapon, at least a real one. _"I- It's my first time, ma'am."_

" _Quaestor Artoria. You want to serve the Legion, is that it?"_

" _Yes ma- uh. Quaestor Artoria. I do!"_

" _Not tonight you're not. It's going to be a battle for the city as I'm sure you've heard the Jarl announce. You are not admitted to the Legion young man, we cannot have citizens in the crossfire."_

" _But-!"_

" _No buts lad. I'll be happy to see if you are worth the recommendation but for tonight, stay indoors. Barricade your home and brave the night with your loved ones. This is not a day for recruitment."_ Before Alain can respond, another young woman's voice rings out with panic and shock. _"ALAIN!"_ The all-too familiar sound of his twin sister makes him stand on edge, knowing her distaste for violence. Seeing him wielding a longsword and speaking to an Imperial Legionnaire must send shivers down her spine that in turn cause the ends of his hairs to flare and ascend upright. _"Alain, what are you doing here?! I've been so worried about you! Please pardon my brother ma'am..."_ She sheepishly utters, though Celina makes no effort to comment on the young lady's words, for she finds herself staring into the pale beauty's delicate brown eyes, admiring the sight of the kind lady before reality beckons her once more. _"Ah. It is nothing to worry about, Alain here is your brother?"_

" _Yes, my younger twin."_ Celina finds herself smiling at Anya again, the Priestess this time notices and shyly smiles back, looking down towards the floor. _"Pardon my rudeness, I am Quaestor Artoria, though Celina is fine."_

" _Anya Vanne, my brother is Alain."_

" _Anya, a pleasure."_ She says, taking a moment to inspect Anya's robes to quickly identify her as a Priestess. _"A Priestess of the Divines? Is the temple aptly stocked for medical supplies? We have much in our supply carriage should the Temple require it."_

" _Oh, you are too kind Quaestor Artoria... Thank you, we have been managing but any help to the Temple is deeply appreciated."_

" _Anything for a fellow servant of the Gods... And please, Celina will do."_ She says gently, gradually losing the commanding tone of an Imperial soldier for that of a kind and considerate woman donating to the Temple of Kynareth and its graceful Priestess, who refuses to vacate her thoughts. _"Alain, you should get back home now. Mother is worried about you."_

" _Fine, I will... Farewell, Quaestor Artoria."_ Alain offers Celina a respectful bow before he runs off through the stony streets, finding his way back home. With just Celina and Anya left in one another's company, Anya takes the time to apologize for her brother, her tone remaining shy and hesitant. _"I'm sorry if my brother bothered you at all... He is very keen on joining the Legion."_

" _I noticed."_ Celina responded softly, her emerald eyes anchored onto Anya's humble brown irises, smiling sweetly at her. _"He's a good lad, from what I can tell. You don't need to apologize for his patriotism to our Emperor, though I am curious about his sister."_ The statement made Anya blink, blushing faintly as she swiftly looks to the floor nervously. _"W-what about me?"_

" _A man keen on fighting in the name of Emperor Titus Mede II and yet his twin sister shows no sign of it, instead opting for the peaceful life of a Priestess. What forged your faith may I ask?"_

" _Oh... Well... I wanted to help people's lives. There is so much death and sorrow in Tamriel, I wanted to show kindness and happiness to the people of Whiterun, as the Gods decree. I hope that my work is successful..."_

" _I believe it is."_ Celina confidently states, glowing with a kindred smile that in turn makes Anya smile shyly, her cheeks a flustered pink. Celina sighs and her smile fades as she speaks out. _"I must depart to inspect the fortifications. I trust a woman like yourself has much work in the Temple to oversee?"_ Anya stuttered faintly, both perplexed and off-put as she asks _"A... A woman like me, Celina?"_ to which she receives the answer _"A kind and caring soul."_ a statement that only heightens the smile Anya bears, glowing with a radiant shine of happiness at the friendly, caring conversation between the two women. _"Yes, I do... I hope we meet again, Celina. It has been a pleasure."_

" _Truly... May the Gods look kindly upon you Anya."_ Celina yields a gentle nod before she turns and parts from Anya, retaining her tranquil smile as she proceeds to oversee barricades and infantry placements to protect Whiterun from siege and assault. Anya walks toward the Temple of Kynareth, with questions and curiosities anew plaguing her mind. 'A kind and caring soul' echoed throughout her thoughts and she was oblivious to the deep, treasured smile it brought to her lips each time the words circulated in her mind, guided by the memories of Celina's sharp, bold lips that beckoned her memories with each passing second.

* * *

 **3 hours before the Stormcloaks arrive.**

" _Zedrick, what do you think about the ladies of Whiterun?"_ Asks Ortis, glancing between Celina and Zedrick as the trio sit by a campfire sampling warm soup as Skyrim's daylight gradually bleeds away to allow Masser and Secunda to dominate the approaching night. Dusk has yet to rise, allowing orange shades of fading light to bathe the environment, enough to detail the surroundings by a crafty scout: The three have encamped themselves atop a small rocky hill that surrounds the raised drawbridge that leads to Whiterun's entrance gates. Battlements are filled with archers and walkways obstructed with wooden, spiked blockades to deter any charging enemies. In the dim light the white stone the city shares its namesake with looks to be an exotic ivory, ancient foundations that have withstood the test of time for centuries. Their endurance is to be tested once more as siege and warfare loom closer and closer. _"Well. I consider myself a gentleman, a respected Imperial... However, I have noticed the gorgeous maiden in the Temple of Kynareth."_

" _Ahah! The red haired one?"  
"The very same!" _Celina bears an expression of utter distaste, silently polishing her blade and gradually looking more and more irked as these men discuss the serene woman she met previously. _"Gods, what I wouldn't give to have her polish my sword, you know?"_ The two men laugh casually at their banter, only for Celina to hiss her disapproval with a venomous tinge felt in her voice. _"She is a Priestess of the Divines! Do not sully her name with your disgusting desires!"_ She callously states to the men before departing for her own privacy. Ortis and Zedrick look to one another confused, shrugging their shoulders with indifference. _"What got her britches twisted?"_ Ortis asks bluntly.

" _Don't ask me. Maybe she's jealous because it's not her we're admiring?"_ Zedrick laments, unable to conjure any other reasons for the woman's foul mood.

" _Would you?"_ The Nord takes the chance to put Zedrick on the spot, smirking at him.

" _What?"_ He asks, confused at Ortis' question.

" _Would you court Artoria?"_ Asked with a sly grin from the unkempt Nordic man.

" _Oh. Well.. I uh..."_ Zedrick begins to blush and stutter, nervously looking at the fire and distracting himself with a frantic sip of his hot soup, shrieking quietly at the burning sensation on his tongue. _"Agh! That's hot!"_

" _Don't change the subject! You -would-! You've got a fire for Artoria haven't you?"_ Ortis asks loudly, laughing at the embarrassed Imperial as he nervously chuckles and denies the accusation. _"What! No! She's our Quaestor, don't be stupid! Just stop talking about this!"_ He commands, though the Nord only finds further amusement at the Imperial.

Celina meanwhile, walks up to the Battlements rife with Whiterun and Imperial archers at attention together, unified by their duty to fend the great city against the rebel Stormcloaks. Commander Caius stands guard beside the row of archers, inspecting their defences from above the entrance to the city that soon would become a battlefield, the rustle of townsfolk browsing the visiting Khajiit caravans or the clanging of horseshoes exchanged for roars of carnage and blood to soak the soil, staining the ground with grim reminders of man's need for chaos. _"How are the men?"_ Celina asks the Commander, whose face is unfazed for the approaching strife. He bears a vertical scar below his left eye with a receding hairline of dark brown shades, adorned in the Whiterun Guard uniform – a chain-mail jerkin with fur boots padded in leather, all shielded by a yellow-golden drape to signify Whiterun's colours – with the exception of no wrist guards and no shield. Armed only with a steel longsword, the confident and brave veteran even now out-classes the younger men in his charge. Age has thus far failed to hinder the soldier who rushes head-first into the fray, the defence of Whiterun and its citizens being his top priority at all times. Rushing into the enemy to ensure they dare not step foot in his beloved city is surely one way to protect the citizens of his home. _"They are ready for the Stormcloaks. Some of them even hoping we're outnumbered."_

" _Hoping we're outnumbered?"_ Celina asks. _"Yes. So there are more bodies for them to cut down."_ Caius specifies, holding onto the hilt of his blade. _"I see... Confidence we can use, but bravado gets soldiers killed. I hope it's the former."_ Celina states, but her attention is forced to gaze over the walls of the city, eyes reaching the Temple of Kynareth's rooftops in the distance. She sighs wistfully, imagining far more interesting and meaningful ways to spend her night than waiting for the onslaught of a power-hungry rebellion. Longing to meet her again, that crimson enchantress that has stolen her focus with her disarming smile and tender looks. Shaking her head, Celina makes her way through the defenders and enters the city through a stairwell that leads to the battlements. Waiting at the foot of the stairs are a squad of six Imperial soldiers who salute her arrival. _"At ease, soldiers."_ Celina commands with respectable authority, allowing the Imperials to relax at her presence. _"Here is the plan: We will act as a dual-force. If the Stormcloaks somehow lower the drawbridge outside and get inside of the city, we are to cut off their advance here at the gates. The inner bridge will be their entry point with possible flanking at these stairs. I want an archery position stationed on a rooftop to catch any ranged combatants. The rest of us will harass them at the gates as lethal distractions as the reinforcement squad at the Keep charge them. If we hear news that the battle is ours, we will reinforce the city entrance and drive them out. Any questions?"_ Her squadron remain silent, satisfying the Quaestor. _"Good. Stock up on whatever supplies you need, when they arrive we need to be ready to vanquish as many as possible. Gods watch over you."_

Celina raises her brow as the sound of marching boots resounds behind her. Turning to face the source of this noise, she is bewildered to find Jarl Balgruuf and his men armoured and ready for battle. The Jarl definitely stands out amongst his men, sporting a regalia of valiant steel plate armour polished and ready to be coated in Stormcloak blood. His armour is bulky, yet precise in design with decorative swirls and etchings that resemble gusts of wind washing over the land, a fur kilt is attached to the waist of the raiment and also protects the opening of the boots for the combatant's comfort. Balgruuf chuckles and comes equipped with his steel war axe and a longsword sheathed at the waist, much to the surprise of Celina. _"My Jarl, what are you doing out here?"_

" _Hah! You think because I govern Whiterun that I would slither into my Keep and leave the glory of battle to my men? No. I am Jarl Balgruuf the Greater! This Hold is my charge and I will personally see to its security!"_ The stubborn Nord boldly states, his fiery demeanour is enough of a tempest to awaken the long-dormant Draugr from their ancient slumber. _"There is no convincing you, is there my Jarl? Very well, we will face the Stormcloaks together, but your survival surpasses all."_

" _No. If I am to fall tonight, then I'm taking as many Stormcloaks to Sovngarde with me as possible."_ Celina sighs to herself, despite her growing admiration for Balruuf she cannot help but think to herself: _**'Men. Why are they so irrational...'**_

Anya looks out of the window in the Temple of Kynareth, concerned for the men and women risking their lives in order to protect the peace and sanctity of their fair city. She slowly lowers herself to her knees, assuming a prayer position in the centre of the Temple, surrounded by fading light shining through the Temple and exquisite stone forming a beautiful floor beneath her humble form. Her soft eyes close and her palms come together as she prays aloud for her city. _"Under Stendarr: Be kind and generous to the people of Tamriel. Protect the weak, heal the sick, and give to the needy."_ She pauses in her prayer before continuing. _"Under Arkay: Honour the earth, its creatures, and the spirits, living and dead. Guard and tend the bounties of the mortal world, and do not profane the spirits of the dead. Under Mara: Live soberly and peacefully. Honour your parents, and preserve the peace and security of home and family."_ She again pauses, thinking deeply on her family, the duty of caring for Alain and keeping him out of trouble, always watching over her younger brother. Ultimately her efforts to keep her friends and family happy even through the difficult times where sorrow and misfortune rule the day. _"Under Zenithar: Work hard, and you will be rewarded. Spend wisely, and you will be comfortable. Never steal, or you will be punished."_ Her thoughts pan to the work her father put into his merchant store, the creation and selling of Breton artwork and sculptures made Ambroise Vanne a successful entrepreneur with her mother and brother helping him. He retired early back in High Rock, yet he yearned to live in peace in Skyrim's rolling tundra with his beloved family. _"Under Kynareth:_ _Use Nature's gifts wisely. Respect her power, and fear her fury. Under Dibella: Open your heart to the noble secrets of art and love. Treasure the gifts of friendship. Seek joy and inspiration in the mysteries of love..."_ Anya then briefly found herself remembering the delightful discussion with one Celina Artoria, fondly recalling her exotic pale skin, adorable freckles and the intriguing scarlet hair, the flame-kissed beauty invaded her prayers and her thoughts to the unknown pleasure of the young Priestess, who smiled deeply to herself before she continued praying. _"Under Julianos: Know the truth. Observe the law. When in doubt, seek wisdom from the wise. Under Akatosh: Serve and obey your Emperor. Study the Covenants. Worship the Eight, do your duty, and heed the commands of the saints and priests. By the Eight Divines, be good to one another. Blessings of the Divines upon us all."_

Her prayers concluded, she stood up and arose with a relieved sigh, confident that the Gods will watch over her city and protect those who call it home from the horrors of war. As she turned to leave, Gjalder Iron-Blood blocked her way after quietly following her into the Temple. _"Hello Anya."_ He quickly says. Uncomfortable with this unannounced visit and impolite appearance, she quietly returns his attitude with saint-like manners and kindness. _"Good evening, Gjalder. Could you kindly let me pass? I must return home."_

" _You're not going anywhere until you tell me right here and now what you don't like about me."_ Anya blinked, upset by his aggressive tone and demanding nature, she tries to maintain her polite behaviour but it serves little use as Gjalder continues to oppress and harass her choices. _"I... Gjalder, it's not so simple as-"_

" _No! I am a good, hard-working man and you are a beautiful young woman. Life is so short, we are destined to be wed! So why do you reject me?"_ Anya begins to be visibly and emotionally saddened by his forward approach, pleading for him to ease his intentions. _"Gjalder, please! You're frightening me, please let me go home."_

" _I want an answer Anya! Nobody in Skyrim is as flawless as you, just at least give me an answer!"_ She stutters and begins to show distress, clearly his intimidating nature has affected her but the oblivious Nord shows no signs of even noticing her discomfort, wanting only an answer to his rejected advances towards the innocent woman. _"I... I can't answer that Gjalder, I'm sorry. I'm sorry..."_ Gjalder narrows his brow at Anya, realizing he likely won't get an answer out of her even when he presses her into a corner. _"Fine... Be like that. This damned city deserves to be lost to the Stormcloaks. At least then -true- Nords will live here, not mindless morons and harlots!"_ His insulting rant is cut short as Anya, during an emotional torrent raises her palm to slap Gjalder across the cheek, silencing the heated Nord with a harrowing strike into reality. He looks to the young woman, whose eyes have grown red and tears fall down her cheeks as she storms past the man, now stood still as he realizes the hopelessness of his crush. Sighing in defeat, Gjalder walks out of the temple angered and disappointed after Anya tearfully heads home, insulted and offended by a man who claimed to have loved her, but his behaviour really showed that he wanted one thing from her which failed her definition of love, but selfishness with no regards to her heart's desires.


	3. Chapter 3: Blood and Silver

**4E 201, 7th of Rain's Hand, late evening.**

 **The Reach**

The dawn began to bleed and the twin moons Masser and Secunda together slithered their way into the star-kissed cosmos. Orange light fading rapidly, bestowing an autumn glow upon the wilderness of Skyrim. The Bosmer renegade had been travelling for hours, escaping his tormentors and close execution by the faintest stroke of good fortune. Indeed, the Gods must be favouring the Mer this day. His feet grew sore with blisters beginning to form, legs aching and sweat drenching his already grime-ridden rags that barely concealed his body from the elements. He had to find respite somewhere or else Kyne's fury would finish the job the Imperials sought to do. The Bosmer followed a cobblestone road laden between mountainous rock formations and the continuous river splashing and flowing with free reign. He recognized his environment now that he has had a chance to adjust and regain his senses after almost passing into the void. The unmistakable terrain is that of The Reach, a revelation that made the Bosmer uneasy for this is the home of the Reachmen, more commonly addressed as the Forsworn: Ruthless heathens who wield ancient magicks and hearken to the terrifying Hagravens, disgusting amalgamations of women and crow to conjure a hideous witch in need of a wooden stake and cleansing fire.

How many days had he been imprisoned? Weeks? Months? Years? He could scarcely fathom. All sense of time and direction became distant memories, a forlorn requiem of shattered hopes in which the condemned dream of feeling the touch of the sun upon their skin once more, the sensations of air grazing their skin in fields beyond cold, iron bars. This blistered, exhausting trek through The Reach's wilderness however arduous was a blessing in disguise, for it embodied freedom and returned senses that the Bosmer had all but forgotten during his bondage. However grateful he was to have escaped, the reality of his newfound escapee status lingered in his thoughts: How was he to evade his captors? He considered his options, which Holds to travel to, out of reach for that county's justice... But he knew too well that his situation would never be so simple as that, not after what transpired.

Distant voices began to rise, that of an unidentified man and woman with metallic clasps against the stony ground. The Mer swiftly dived behind nearby rocks lying in wait, pulling the stolen Imperial longbow over from his shoulder and nocking a steel arrow from his quiver. Who would reasonably be travelling so freely this late into the evening in such a dangerous Hold with the possibility of kidnappings and even murder a very real fate to the unprepared? The two were quick to arrive and they appeared to be nothing more than two travelling nobles, the regalia of them both was exquisite to behold: Exotic blue silks clung to the flesh with clean, precise boots carved out of smooth leather protected their feet. The gentleman of the duo appeared to be walking and guiding a Pinto horse, the beast bore a black coat adorned with milky white spots. The lady rode the steed sporting a garb that matched her travel companion's save for a violet shade as opposed to his lake-blue attire. Quick to lunge from the rocks with an arrow nocked, the Bosmer stands before the travellers and shouts aggressively, tugging the arrow's crimson fletching tightly against the bowstring. _"Down from the horse! Clothes and gold, now!"_ He demands, pointing the steel-tipped arrow in the direction of the man guiding the lady and her steed.

Panicking and fearful for their lives, the victims of the Bosmer's mugging become compelled to heed his commands. The woman disembarks her steed and stands beside the gentleman as he flimsily surrenders his coin purse, brimming with gold septims. Elvish hands quickly take hold of the coerced offering before he again raises his voice to the captive travellers, though without any pockets he is forced to sling the bow over his shoulder then uses the previously nocked arrow to threaten them with, pressing the tip of the steel broadhead to the man's neck, causing him to gulp fearfully. _"Your garb. Give it to me!"_ The Elf demands, much to the concern of the nobleman. _"You have your money now just leave us be!"_ He protests, only for his words to be rewarded with aggression. The Bosmer clenches his fist around the arrow and delivers a strike to the hostage's cheek, wielding the arrow in such a way that the broadhead protruded very slightly between his enclosed fingers, allowing not only a punch to be thrown but also a piercing jab with the steel-tipped arrow, making the man bleed and wail out from the painful strike. _"Don't make me ask again!"_ His voice beckons their obedience and his demeanour compels the wayfaring male into surrendering his apparel. Swiftly the hostage pulls his arms from his luxurious silky-blue jacket and finely tailored black boots before having to seize his cheek, shielding the minor yet stinging puncture to his face with shock coursing through his entire body. The escaped Elf scoops up the offered overcoat and boots with nimbleness, sizing up to the man with a threatening, gravelly tone of voice. _"Forget my face."_ Parting with a fiendish stare, the Bosmer prowls his way along the rocky road to put as much distance between himself and the wayfaring nobles as much as possible.

* * *

 **4E 201, 7th of Rain's Hand, night falls.**

The night descended upon Skyrim at long last, what felt like an eternal summer has finally parted. The sun's final kiss upon Tamriel was planted to make way for the chilling embrace of twilight's shrouding presence. The renegade, now well suited to pose as a travelling merchant or nobleman of sorts found himself standing before a small, narrow stone bridge leading up to a road-covered hill. Crowning this hill was a structure he knew well and smiled in joy to behold: The City of Markarth. Its mighty walls and rooftops protruding from the side of a sturdy mountain filled him with a warmth he sought for so long, at last respite from the rugged existence of a man sentenced to death for sanitary civilization. He considered his actions and begrudgingly stowed his stolen longbow and arrows beneath the foot of the bridge should he need to reacquire them later, after all what travelling nobleman carries an Imperial longbow with their finery? Even beneath the moonlit night or perhaps because of the pale light, the city of Markarth was a beautiful sight to behold: ancient stones rich with history carved out of the natural mountainside to form a city on the surface. Every building visible was graced with golden panels, each door in sight a glistening metallic barrier reminiscent of the fabled Dwemer, the Deep Elves that lived in seclusion beneath the earth. Yet the only trace of these architecture and technological behemoths are the very creations that made them known throughout the generations of mortals inhabiting Tamriel. Hundreds of years since the entire race was silenced their machinations roam the empty halls of Dwemer cities and ruins as if their mysterious Masters commanded them that very same day.

He collected his thoughts and steadied his breaths, elvish eyes scanning the city gates: He spots two Guards protecting the majestic golden doors that lead into Markarth with an additional archer positioned within a royal pavilion on his western flank. Composure gained and concern cleared to make way for confidence, the Bosmer approaches the gates with a weary look in his bright hazel eyes. _"Good evening."_ He says to one of the Guards, whom look upon the Bosmer curiously. _"Gods above... It's dangerous to be out here by yourself this late into the night. What business have you?"_ The Guard asks. _"I was expecting to arrive a day ago, alas our carriage suffered damage and I walked the rest of the journey... I am here to see a friend."_ He responds, glancing to the other Guard though his face is shrouded by a visor. _"A friend?"_

" _Yes, a friend. Do all visitors to this fair city get questioned so?"_ The Bosmer quips, seemingly impatient with the inane pries from the graveyard shift Guardsmen. _"Apologies, please head inside. The tavern is beyond the left walkway as you enter the marketplace ahead. Welcome to Markarth traveller."_ The Guard surrenders his investigative line of questioning, nodding to his partner on the late shift. The Bosmer is subject to the sound of a deep, resonating groan of metal creaking slowly open as the shining monoliths part to yield the quiet Marketplace kept illuminated by dim torch light and patrolling Guards of the city. Empty stands all together in a circle to allow patrons of the day to browse effortlessly the wares being sold in the city's most open hub, next to a scenic lake that ever flows throughout the stony citadel. _"Thank you. Gods smile upon you both."_ The Elf responds before his feet carry him through the golden gates into the extravagant city of masonry.

Skulking through the city's quiet streets the Mer finds his way through to the furthest reaches of Markarth, a destitute bog of poverty and ill paid labour being the only source of income for its less fortunate inhabitants. Mere steps away from a cave system used as the city's prison, the dreaded Cidhna Mine where men and women who commit crimes against the Hold are sentenced to labour until their crimes are repaid in silver or they fall into death's cold, ruthless hands. In more ways than one, blood and silver are what flows through Markarth. Eventually the Bosmer finds himself down in the depths of depravity, the sewer-like housings known as The Warrens where the poor of the city live in disgusting, inhumane existences: No beds or clean clothings, no kitchens, no restrooms of any kind. Filth, sweat and mud accompany the residents of The Warrens. The Elf approaches a scrawny, smaller man who appears to be quite some years his senior, simply asking the apparent stranger, _"Where's the Orc?"_ a swift answer arrives with a silent gesture pointing inwards, deeper into the ruined caverns that became The Warrens. The Mer nods and enters the grimy living quarters, if they can even be called that. Moments after he enters the sound of fleshy, soft thumps can be heard within a room adjacent to crumbling walls that barely hold their weight beneath the rocky ceiling. Punctures and missing slabs of concrete litter parts of the wall, doing little to mask the sounds within: Deep, guttural thrusting grunts bellow loudly accompanied with the ecstatic cries of intense pleasure shrieking out of a woman's lungs. It became immediately clear what was transpiring and the Bosmer stifled a surprised gasp as their moans and grunts escalated.

In what felt like another hour passing by, the heightening moans and screams of bestial cravings became more and more exotic and colourful before the frantic howls of pleasure became a blood-curdling climactic end to their nocturnal affairs. The run-down door then swings open revealing a very tall, muscular green Orc with not a rag covering his body, rather carried in his arm in a messy bundle. The Bosmer blinked in shock as he saw the bulky Orc depart with his mighty length swinging freely in the open with an aroma of dominance and masculine prowess surrounding the alpha male. The Bosmer couldn't help but gawk downward, inspecting the Orc's length before he gazed into the room to see a Human woman trying desperately to catch her breath, flustered to the point of steam protruding her orifices as she no doubt will spend the night recuperating from the Orc's impressive and durable stamina and strength. The Orc then takes the effort to put on his rags and cover his manhood before the Bosmer calls out to him. _"Mordrog, I don't think I've seen you quite like this before...!"_ Having been oblivious to his presence, Mordrog looks to the Bosmer and chuckles deeply, running his fingers through his rough, braided goatee that reaches to the top of his sternum. Beyond the unkempt goatee the Orc bears no other hair on his head with a reasonable amount covering his thick and sizable chest. _"Aradriel. Hah! Never thought I'd find you in this shithole. What are you doing here?"_ Mordrog asks with a reverberating voice as deep as a bottomless crevice. _"I..."_ Aradriel pauses, looking back to the circumstances that led him to Markarth in the first place. He had no choice in the matter, he had no desire to come here of his own volition but fate had demanded that he come here or suffer death at the hands of the Imperials by the orders of a higher power. He relents his silence with a deep breath, blinking slowly before he quietly speaks up. _"...Is there somewhere we can talk? Privately?"_ Naturally confused, Modrog raises a jagged, uneven eyebrow and nods to the Mer. _"Yes, follow me. Nobody comes to my quarters here in The Warrens."_

The rusted, scrap metal of a door is sealed shut into the stone archway that make up the majority of the 'bedrooms' down in The Warrens. Modrog sits Aradriel down on a small wooden stool as he takes a seat onto a large, flat rock that decorated much of his quarters. _"Alright, we can talk. What's going on?"_ Modrog asked, not one to wait for any kind of diplomacy. Even his arrival into Aradriel's line of sight showed his brazen nature. The younger Elf breathes deeply and regales the Orc with his story. _"I've... I've done it Modrog. The Heist. You know the one we always talked about? With the old crew? I did it. You all said it was impossible, but I did it! -Me!-"_ The Bosmer quietly exclaims, much to the surprise of Modrog who looks at him wide-eyed. _"By Malacath... The Thalmor Embassy? You actually did it? How are you even alive?"_

" _Believe me Modrog, I'm lucky to BE alive. I just... I just escaped an execution. That bastard almost had me but thank Yffre for this Civil War! Stormcloaks attacked and I slipped away in the chaos."_

" _Sneaky bastard aren't you! So where is it?"_ Modrog asks, dying of suspense to know how the Elf managed to pull off this elusive and nigh impossible heist – alone. _"I've had to hide it, but don't worry it's safe. Only I know where it is and I need to get it back. I can't let it all be for nothing!"_ Aradriel proclaims, rising from his seat before Modrog sets him back down with his meaty hands resting on the Elf's petite shoulders. _"Relax, relax! We'll find it... I'm more worried about you."_

" _Me?"_ Aradriel asks, perplexed at the Orc's concern. _"You just said you've escaped execution. You're desperate to find the goods and you know damn well the Thalmor will be on your trail for it. If you escaped execution and made it here on foot, I'd want to get out of Markarth as soon as possible."_ Modrog states, a sentence that rings true for the Bosmer's mind as he gains a blank stare, contemplating the reality of the Orc's words. _"I need to go... I need to go! I need to-"_

" _Shut your mouth or by Malacath, I'll send you to Oblivion myself! Get some rest you damned fool, I'll make sure nobody comes looking down here."_ Modrog demands that the Bosmer stays put and get some rest, for his journey has been long and weary, surely beginning to take a toll on Aradriel's psyche and stamina if not already. He lays down onto the tacky bedroll provided to Modrog and tries his best to gain some sleep, but initially his attempts of diving into the dream world fail and he finds himself opening his eyes to more bleak rock and dirty ground. He sighs deeply and rolls in the covers trying to find some comfort to focus upon but to no avail, the stress and worry of his circumstances becoming too real a burden for the Mer to experience on his own. _"Mordrog, do you know where the rest of the old crew is?"_ Aradriel asks in a sincere tone, wanting to break the uncomfortable silence for with it came the flashbacks and echoes of past ripples coming to surface once more, hoping the discussion with his old friend will mute the memories. Mordrog glances over to Aradriel wrapped in his bed sheets with a solemn sigh, furrowing his rough, fleshy brow as his gaze turns to the small fire central to his quarters – the only source of light for the denizens of The Warrens.

" _I haven't seen anybody from the old days for two years... Until now. If anybody will know, it's Lei. She's always been the one with knowledge on everything."_ Mordrog states, stroking his thumb and index finger through his rough, ragged beard. Aradriel nods to himself, thinking deeply. _"She's still in Riften, I'd wager."_

" _Yeah. Safest bet to make."_ Mordrog proclaims in agreement then allowing the silence to linger once more. Small-talk is notably more difficult to continue considering the brevity of circumstances not only the Bosmer but now the Orc too find themselves ensnared within. Aradriel sighs and shakes his head, thinking of anything to divert himself from the awkward nothingness. _"So... Can I ask you something, Mordrog?"_ The Orc sighs patiently, knowing the stratagem his old friend is trying to employ but nevertheless entertains the Mer. _"Sure."_

" _Who was she, that woman?"_ Mordrog glances to Aradriel and they look upon one another in silence before the duo chuckle loudly and share a hearty laugh together, some warmth to their conjoined dilemma as they revel in amusement and masculinity. _"Ahah! That woman? I don't even know her name!"_ Mordrog admitted during a bout of hoarse laughter, much to Aradriel's amusement. _"By Yffre, you didn't do her that little courtesy? Here I thought you were a gentleman!"_ The Bosmer mused, chuckling as he awaited the Orc's answer to his curiosity. _"She wasn't interested in mine! Just my prowess and she got it!"_ The proud Orc happily chuckles himself away as Aradriel laughs with him, sitting upright in the bedroll to better discuss the subject with his friend. _"What about you Aradriel? Found anybody to plunge your sword into yet?"_ Mordrog blurts out with an encouraging nod to the Mer's direction, much to the embarrassment of the man. _"Ahah... Well, I've always found it a bit more difficult to find someone for that."_ He sheepishly admits, burrowing his flustering cheeks from sight. Mordrog smirks and parts from his large stony throne in order to sit beside Aradriel in the bedroll, closer to the campfire in order to stoke the flames with a nearby piece of rubble long enough to be used as a poker. _"Only a matter of time. I'm sure there's another good looking Elf you can pull the pants off."_

" _Why another Elf? Could be a Nord, Breton... Maybe even an Orc~."_ Aradriel whispers with a smirk, flickering his eyebrow with a nod to Mordrog, which only makes the living bulwark of a man chuckle. _"Maybe. Get some sleep you. You're going to need it."_ He states, words that Aradriel could easily agree with as the toll of wandering through The Reach for most of the evening narrowly escaping death is beginning to show on his face, bags of exhaustion forming beneath his eye sockets giving him a weary and drained appearance. Patting the Orc's lap gently, Aradriel slips beneath the covers of his borrowed bedroll and tries his utmost to steal some sleep from this fateful evening with Mordrog watching over the Mer as he attempts to rest. He cannot help but smile, he missed his old friend and the days of glory they had together in the past. Perhaps those days are beginning to resurface?

* * *

Steel horseshoes rock the foundations of the stone beneath them as a trio of stallions rush through The Reach, swiftly arriving at the ruined remnants of an Imperial Campsite ravaged by ambushes and dying embers. A group of surviving Imperial Legionnaires scavenge their efforts in order to gain progress in their grim task: Gather their fallen comrades, their brothers and sisters so they might be preserved a spot in a grand necropolis back in Cyrodiil, ensuring that the legacy of their comrades is not lost to the ages, forever carved into the anecdotes of history as protectors of the Empire and enforcers of Emperor Titus Mede II's will as ruler of Tamriel. The three riders disembark from their steeds, revealed by the moonlight to be Thalmor agents, two soldiers outfitted with light Elven armour that glistens a pale olive-green peridot colour with a golden polish to it, bestowing a spectacle of royalty that commands attention wherever its bearer may tread. Stylish swirls and fanned designs on the Elven armour give the raiments a wing-like effect all over as if the armour was inspired by the majestic Gryphons of the Summerset Isles. The third rider to emerge is a Thalmor Judiciator, dressed suitably in the black Thalmor robes with small, spiked rivets decorating much of the Mer's gauntlets and golden trims contrasting the jet-black fabrics of his garb. Unhooded, the Altmer Judiciator leading the two soldiers approaches the survivors of the campsite, addressing them in a higher pitched, condescending tone of voice befitting an arrogant agent of the Thalmor. _"You there, Imperials. I am Judiciator Vandalion of the Thalmor. I require information on a missing prisoner you appear to have failed in keeping in captivity. Am I correct?"_ The apparent newest commander of the camp's remnants steps forward, a younger man who likely was nowhere near ready to take charge of his men yet circumstance forced him into the stressful and uncomfortable position he now faces, where experience and the loss of more good men and women will be his fiercest teachers in leadership. _"Judiciator... We were ambushed by Stormcloaks, hordes of them! We barely held our own against their numbers, forgive me if one petty criminal escaped during this terrorist attack!"_

" _You allowed these Stormcloak rebels to overwhelm your trained soldiers? Please do not insult my intelligence, or will you persist on this story of inadequacy?"_ The younger commander understandably was appalled by the Altmer's attitude but before he could debate the matter further, Vandalion continued to speak in condescending mannerisms towards the surviving soldiers who remain shocked and in grieving over the raid and slaughter of their friends and comrades. _"You are all now under command of the Thalmor. Remain here and fortify this location immediately. My Agents and I will investigate this missing prisoner you have so failed to contain here. I expect far greater performances henceforth if you are all to be remembered for your... 'Efforts' here. Dismissed."_

Vandalion returns to his two bodyguards, addressing them both together in a triangle away from the Imperial forces. His company appear to be twin sisters, two beautiful Altmer women with golden skin and flowing hair radiant as the sun itself, sparking with a yellow shine worthy of the finest jewellery crafted in the heart of the Isles, their artistic and sensational homeland. The biggest difference between the twins, and indeed the only notable difference is the hair length, one sister has shoulder length and the other's hair extends well past that point, reaching to the middle of her back. _"He was here but has escaped from custody. I want you both to scour The Reach and find him. I do not care how many houses you must raze or what interrogations are required but you absolutely -must- find him!"_ He hisses the orders out with venom and rage veiled by his dignified demeanour he fails to fully maintain, clearly intent on hunting down the aforementioned fugitive. The twin guards nod silently and proceed to embark on their new objective, their prerogative to hunt down the escaped prisoner will become their ultimate focus, such is the extent of their loyalty. Vandalion watches them mount their steeds and charge down the cobblestone roads before he reaches into his Thalmor robes, procuring a small shattered pendant of Altmeri design. The pendant is a charming trinket with a glistening pearl-like colour depicting the ripples and flames of a sun, a pendant of Auri-El, King of the Aldmer. The pendant is so bright and polished that his reflection can be seen within it, the shine of his smooth, golden swept back hair lingers in the heart of the amulet. Curiously, one of the ripples from the sun's heat is missing from the medallion, a fact that Vandalion is keenly aware of as he delicately brushes his fingers against the broken remnants of the jewellery, sighing in deep contemplation, focused upon something intently. His lip begins to quiver and his nostrils gently flare as a harrowing memory invades his mind, surfacing past horrors with renewed dread.

" _Do you ever doubt Vandalion, Naylarie?"_ The shorter haired twin asks her counterpart, whom gazes to her twin with an unsure look in her eyes, sighing gently. _"There is nothing we can do about him, dear Nairume. He may be a despicable bastard... But he has done so much for us, you know we'd never find anyone else to care about us here. It's for our own good."_ She laments, looking sweetly to her sceptical twin. _"I know... I know. But I hate the way he treats us... It's like he's blackmailing us."_

" _He most likely is... But I'd take that over the discrimination we've suffered in the past because of simple-minded fools."_ The fact is addressed with a knowing silence from the twins, both understanding the need for the apparent protection Vandalion offers yet the desire to seek something more pleasant and worthwhile lingers between them as a miasma of hope. _"Do you know why Vandalion seeks this prisoner Naylarie?"_

" _Not exactly, but I would put my gold on it being related to what happened at the Embassy."_

" _Oh yes I heard about that... But even if the rumours are true, he doesn't need to take out his frustrations on us."_

" _True, but sister please... You know what happened the last time we trusted somebody with the truth, Vandalion has yet to betray that trust. Even if we have to endure him and his... Desires, he still keeps his silence about our past. We need that silence to be unbroken."_

" _It's not fair... It's not. Why should it be kept hidden?"_ Nairume pouts with shrouded scorn, upset about the predicament the twins spend surviving throughout the fleeting days. Naylarie gazes to her sister with a caring smile, softly curving her lips as Nairume looks on to her twin's expressions, weakening her disheartened emotions to allow a returning smile to form on her gentle features, a youthful glimpse of happiness baring all within her charming, tender visage. They silently continue their march through the darkness of The Reach, on the hunt for the missing fugitive their quest demands the recapturing of.

* * *

 **4E 201, 7th of Rain's Hand, midnight. The Stormcloaks arrive.**

 **The Battle for Whiterun Begins**

Energetic roars of battle-hardened men and women seeking to plunge steel and iron into flesh and sinew serenade the once peaceful tundra of Whiterun Hold. Stormcloak rebels stretch far and wide across the yellow fields, lit ablaze with torchlight to reveal the monstrous catapults that Ulfric's men intend to lay siege to Whiterun with. Axes crashing into their bearer's shields, boots stomping onto the ground below, harrowing cries for bloodlust barely contained are scattered into the winds eliminating the soothing touch of a midnight breeze to those who feel the grace of Kyne's breath upon their skin. Commander Caius walks down from the battlements above the city's drawbridge, giving his soldiers and the Imperials rousing words to prepare for the coming onslaught. _"Listen up! These rebels are nothing but petty men and women who seek to overthrow the Empire! Ulfric's cause is built on the foundations of lies and greed, nothing more! He is no martyr, he is no hero, he is but a ruthless tyrant who will stop at nothing to obtain a crown for his skull! He will find no crown in his lifetime, only a pike to leave his severed head to the crows! Rally your strength and muster your courage! Tonight we put down Stormcloak dogs!"_ His battle speech is met with thunderous cheers and sharp songs of steel escaping their polished scabbards ready to end the lives of the rebel forces. In the distance the deep, resonating bellow of a horn calls out to all surrounding the city, causing the Stormcloaks to cry out in unison _"FOR SKYRIM!"_ and charge at the city gates, barricaded well to burden the attackers.

" _Nock!"_ Commander Caius shouts out, raising his arm to give the defending archers a signal to prepare their arrows. Stormcloaks continue to charge with their lungs roaring with hunger to do battle with their sworn enemies, followed by another command by the elder veteran. _"Aim!"_ Swiftly complying, the Whiterun and Imperial archers all raise their bows skyward and draw back upon the bowstring, the tantalizing leathery whine of a bowstring being pulled as far as it can fuel the concentration of the archers. A melody of slinging arrows and impending defeat by a hailstorm of broad-headed steel arrows becoming a sickening thought to savour in their minds. The Stormcloaks approach rapidly to the barricades before Caius finally releases his grasp on the hounds' collars, uttering the command they so longed to hear: _"FIRE!"_ And upon those words, the archers released their arrows and high they soared into the skies, blotting Masser and Secunda with their combined form as a shadow spread on the ground below, encasing many of the front line Stormcloaks in a volley of arrows. Cries of pain and defeat screeched from their lungs as the blanket of arrows pierced their light armours and exposed flesh, already a menagerie of slain rebels littered the path below the drawbridge. Soaring orbs of flame came crashing over the walls of the city, plummeting into the buildings within and scorching residential homes and stores, screams of terrified citizens and surprised soldiers fill the city with panic and fear as fire reigns down over their heads. _"Put out those fires now!"_ Jarl Balgruuf shouts out to one of his contingency guards who proceeds to aid others with water buckets to combat the flames of war. They had been prepared for fire attacks ever since the return of the fabled Dragons, should one ever decide to prey on Whiterun. They had the resources to defend against Ulfric's siege, but none can ever truly prepare for all circumstances. Balgruuf snarled viciously and focused his attention on the gates, beyond which the echoes and sirens of battle can all be heard in full, the spectacle censored only by the sturdy gates themselves.

Castus and his men circle back to the Stormcloak camp where the catapults lay fire and brimstone upon the ancient city. A small crew of five for each of the three catapults remain to operate the siege weapons as the main force charge the gates, allowing Castus and his crew of four soldiers armed with standard issue longswords and Imperial longbows to attempt sabotaging the equipment. Hiding in bushes and tree lines that would lead up to the forest town of Riverwood, the ambush squad lie in wait for a good opportunity to ravage the Stormcloaks. Castus gives the order to pelt one of the crews with arrows the moment their backs are all turned and swiftly, the order is executed: Arrows nocked and four of the five in one catapult team fall to the floor by the hands of the archers. Drawing their swords the soldiers rush in to finish off the final Stormcloak, surprising the other catapult crews enough to allow them success the first time around. _"Charge them! Keep them away from the catapults men!"_ He commands, soon the ambush becomes a skirmish as axes clash against swords and strikes assault shields, sparks of metal dancing between the fighting forces as weapons collide in a melody of conflict. The skirmish does not last for long as it was immediately clear that even with one crew disposed of, the remaining two would still outnumber the Imperials. One Stormcloak is downed and then one of Castus' men falls to a rebel's battleaxe ruthlessly carving into his spine, dropping the Imperial to the ground mercilessly. _"Fall back! Fall back!"_ Castus shouts, ordering his men to retreat into the forests to lose the attackers, but as Castus attempts to run with his men a Stormcloak hurls his own weapon towards him, successfully plunging the discarded iron axe into the back of the Quaestor's left shoulder, shocking his system and pulling the air out of his lungs. He arches his back and drops to a knee in pain before the Stormcloaks overwhelm him and with their weapons tightly grasped, they viciously hack away at the downed Imperial, chopping and skewering his body into bloodied pieces as he weakly cries out in pain before swiftly being silenced, a mutilated carcass of the man remaining on the floor simply left there for the wolves to scavenge.

" _Find the others! We'll keep firing the catapults! Get the rest of them!"_ A Stormcloak Officer yells out to the rest of his men, instructing the soldiers adorned in scales and blue garbs to hunt down the remaining ambush squad in the forests, a total of five Stormcloaks sent to eliminate three Imperial survivors. The surviving soldiers burrow behind a large rock formation with the cover of night and foliage shielding them from immediate sight. They whisper in frantic tones to one another, unsure of what to do or how they might escape the dire situation they now face. Leaderless and hopeless, they quiver in their boots hoping someone or something might save them from execution. _"By Stendarr, we're trapped! We're going to die... We're going to die here!"_ The young Breton man of the trio whispers, struggling to control his breathing. He sits accompanied by the remaining two of his not-so-merry band, a male and female Redguard of similar youthful age. _"Pull yourself together Bernard!"_ The male Redguard speaks out in a deep, husky voice. _"We've still got our bows and we have the element of surprise here in the forests. Let's use that."_ He continues, looking to his female counterpart. _"Saban, get to higher ground, you're the best out of us with the bow. We can distract any stray Stormcloaks and you pick them off and take cover after. Bernard, you're with me. We'll lure out any we can or take the fight to them. We fight and die on -our- terms. Everyone clear?"_ Saban and Bernard nod, with the Breton showing more concern for their fates than either of the braver Redguards. _"K'avar, what if... What if we don't make it...?"_ Bernard quietly whispers, looking to the man for any expressions that may give him hope to live through the night. K'avar simply smirks and says to him quite bluntly, _"Then we die here. Come on."_ which makes Bernard gulp anxiously, but he would rather do his duty with fear than succumb to his own cowardice. The two men prowl through the wilderness foliage until they see the silhouettes of three Stormcloaks searching the woods for their presence. _"There!"_ K'avar points out, nodding in the direction of the Stormcloaks. He turns his head to gaze past his shoulder, looking to the eagle-eyed archer Saban taking position between two rocks on a small hill nearby. K'avar reaches for a branch of the bush he hides within, rustling it rapidly for a few brief moments to catch the attention of one of the Stormcloaks, whom indeed notices the rustling. _"Over here."_ The rebel says to his companions, all of which then proceed to slowly investigate the noises, keeping their astute eyes open for signs of the Imperials. _"Shit..."_ Bernard thinks to himself, not expecting all of them to have been walking towards them.

Saban wastes no time at all in unleashing her first arrow, aiming for the closest Stormcloak soldier's neck and indeed her arrow strikes true, soaring between the trees and plunging itself through the man's coif, piercing his throat and making him drop to the floor choking on his own blood. Startled, his remaining two companions draw their swords and axes looking for the assailant, only for K'avar and Bernard to rise from the ground and take them by surprise. A swift guerrilla strike that proves to be a success, as the Stormcloaks fend off one or two blows before the Imperials gain the advantage and slice through the blue, scaled Stormcloak uniforms with ease, eliminating them with military finesse. Some short paces ahead the remaining two soldiers sent out to find the Imperials faintly hear the clashes, rushing up the road to investigate. Three against two, K'avar and Bernard charge them head on with a battle cry that cuts through the silence of the woods, passing through the leaves of the forest and startling the birds perched up high, fluttering their wings to soar away to softer pastures. Bernard raises his blade to bring it crushing down into the shoulder of his targeted Stormcloak who manages to block it with the hilt of his hide shield, who now has the opportunity to strike at the Breton's ribs with his axe but fails to capitalize on the chance, for the keen archer of their trio Saban takes her shot at him, successfully sinking an arrow into his waist which throws off his balance. Bernard then uses the momentum of Saban's archery to his advantage and swings his blade to skewer the rebel's throat, ending the fires that stoked his desire to fight for Ulfric Stormcloak. K'avar appears to be the better combatant of the three as he takes little effort to dispatch his foe, as their blades clash the Redguard swiftly kicks the man's right knee from the front, knocking him off-balance and straight to the floor where he is the recipient of an aerial strike to the chest, K'avar's longsword deeply embedding itself into his sternum and shattering his ribs, killing the enemy combatant with ease.

" _There's only a small group of them left, we can do this! We can finish our mission and stop those catapults from burning the entire city down!"_ K'avar proclaims, gripping the crimson hilt of his longsword dutifully. Saban looks towards the horizon, the distant glow of Whiterun in flames as the catapults relentlessly hail the city in fire, poisoning the air behind those walls with sulphur and smoke. _"You can see the damage all the way out here... Let's go, the sooner we do this, the more lives we save."_ Saban states in agreement, the trio rushing back to the Stormcloak camp to finish their quest: Assassinate the catapult crews that stayed behind while the main forces all charged into the city to overwhelm the garrisons deployed to protect the ivory walls. Only four of the remaining catapult crewmen remain, one of which is the Stormcloak Officer who commands them all, dressed in the skin of a bear wreathed around scaled raiments, his gauntlets and boots coated with metallic spikes for furious and painful strikes. Saban and company all nock steel arrows from their quivers, Saban feels plenty left for the battles to come unlike her companions who only hold a few handfuls of arrows in their quivers. Saban's index and middle finger grip the red and golden fletchings as she draws back the bowstring, taking aim for one of the rebels as her companions follow suit, taking the leading archer's posture and form as a guidance for their own less than refined skills. Unleashed, the arrow sings through the air with blessed serendipity as her mark lands true, the arrow becoming lodged in the back of her target's nape, sending him to the ground choking and bleeding out. K'avar's target is struck by his arrow but alas a non fatal wound, for he strikes the upper arm of the bulky Stormcloak Officer who grunts painfully but ultimately is unhindered, Bernard misses completely and curses at himself for missing the shot, nerves getting the better of his grip. Leaving Saban to handle the ranged combat, K'avar and Bernard draw swords and charge for the approaching Stormcloaks, everyone dashing forth with fires burning in their hearts and thunder crackling in their veins, bestowing energy and adrenaline to the soldiers who come together to eliminate their rivals in the name of loyalty to their causes.

As the forces charge one another, Saban seeks out a target to take down with her impressive archery skills but fails to spot where the third Stormcloak had gotten to, she could only see two of them that her comrades were rushing to face. Concerned, she quickly scanned the battlefield only to see just in the nick of time the missing Stormcloak, who had their own longbow and took aim at Saban, firing an iron arrow in her direction. Briskly evading, she narrowly avoids being terminated by the coming arrow but it leaves its mark, the metallic tip cutting into her left cheek as she takes cover behind a tree, initiating a duel of archers as the swordsmen slash against one another. Another iron arrow comes her way and penetrates the thick bark of the tree Saban hides behind, alerting her to the strike with a loud, dense thud as it becomes stuck in the tree. She takes a moment to nock an arrow before peeking to her right, seeking to catch the Stormcloak off-guard and hopefully land her shot on the enemy. Ultimately, her strategy failed and the archer manages to avoid being struck by her arrow, hiding behind their tree for cover. Within the centre of the road the Breton and Redguard come to blows with the enemy Officer and his subordinate, crushing blows and sharp slashes of swords assaulting one another reverberate around them all, grunts from the men break through their gritted teeth as they try to out-perform and kill the opposition. Bernard engages his rival Stormcloak with a contest of strength, the edges of both their blades pressed together and sliding down to the cross-guards, becoming a challenge as to who has the greater strength to shove the other away for a killing blow. He struggles to begin with, slowly losing his stance and allowing the enemy to press on. Bernard finds himself thinking of what might happen if he were to fail. If he is struck down here, will he be responsible for the approaching demise of his braver comrades? No, he couldn't let this rebel overwhelm him, he wouldn't allow his own fear to get the better of him, his comrades need him just as much as he needs them. Courage fills the man and determination shields his heart, roaring triumphantly at the Stormcloak engaging him as he shoves the foe away with a push to the left using the momentum to bring his blade back in its trajectory, thus delivering an expeditious laceration to the rebel's spine, forcing him down onto the cold, stone ground.

K'avar finds himself biting off more than he can chew, holding his ground well against the bulwark Officer but ultimately, he gains the higher ground over the Redguard. K'avar becomes the victim of a vicious handle-strike to the lower neck as the Officer wields his mighty battleaxe effortlessly, knocking the Redguard down onto the floor with the wind stolen from his airways. He coughs violently as he tries to catch his breath but fate would condemn him to a brutal execution by the Officer's battleaxe to sunder his head from his shoulders with ruthless efficiency. The Stormcloak raises his axe to deliver the crushing blow, save for the valiant efforts of Bernard who sees K'avar in such a dire stance. Fearless and determined to save his friend, Bernard grasps his longsword with both hands and charges the large Officer with a heroic battlecry, leaping into the air to bring down death from above. Startled, the Stormcloak turns his body towards the charging Breton and raises his battleaxe to strike at the man, both of their speeds collide and the conflict silenced as Bernard lands behind him with his blade soaked in the blood of failed rebels. K'avar blinks and looks to his would-be executioner, watching his jaw fall completely off and a fountain of blood pour from the gaping hole, his tongue dangling without restraint as he lets out disgusting gurgles of pain before he drops to his knees and then to the ground with a heavy crash. Saban nocks another steel arrow and takes her shot at the Stormcloak archer as her brothers-in-arms deal with the remaining soldiers, the rival marksman takes an opportunity to fire on Saban yet she beat him to the punch: The moment his head peeked from the tree, an arrow came carried by the wind directly into his right eye socket, puncturing the visor that covered his face. A distant thud and creak of armour signalled his downfall before silence returned to the peaceful woods once more.

K'avar chuckles dryly as he stands, beginning to catch his breath as he looks to the surprising feat accomplished by the Breton, who single handedly took not only his own foe down but also saved his own life from the stronger, physically superior barbarian. Bernard chuckles back, looking down to his waist and finally his adrenaline fades, his body adjusts to the deep, gaping gash in his stomach that bleeds profusely. Realizing that he was struck by the axe in his aerial plunge, he falls backwards to the floor gasping desperately for air, much to the shock of K'avar who rushes to his side. _"No... No, no no no no!"_ He shouts, kneeling beside the fallen Bernard who lies before him, turning pale and bleeding intensely through the horrific opening in his stomach. No matter what efforts K'avar tries to stop the bleeding it only continues to weep crimson waters as Bernard strains his eyes and hoarsely moans, gradually sounding weaker and weaker. The pained Breton softly tries to speak out to K'avar, stuttering every word and tears begin to fill his eyes as he subconsciously becomes aware that he is about to die here in his friend's arms. _"W-we... We did it... Ugh... We did it..."_

" _Damn it Bernard, stay with me! Stay with me!"_ K'avar shouts, desperately trying to staunch the bleeding by putting pressure onto the wound to no avail, merely succeeding in covering his own hands with the Breton's blood. Saban arrives to the scene and covers her agape mouth in shock and sorrow for the boy's injuries, beholding the sting of a comrade, a brother-in-arms succumbing to their wounds in pain. _"I... I'm cold... It hurts... It hurts...!"_ Bernard wails out, beginning to hyperventilate, choking on his own breath as he stutters and shakes in agony from his fatal wound.

" _I don't... I don't want to die... No... No no... I..."_ Bernard's hushed and strained final words fade from his lips as he turns colder and colder, now letting out a raspy breath before he ceases completely, ending his shaking body to become limp and still, his head falling back, hands dropping from his stomach to the floor besides his cadaver. K'avar looks on in anger as Bernard fades from the warmth of life, clenching his blood-soaked fists in frustration as the Breton no longer responds to anything around him, the life escaping his body, warmth drained for the emotionless, heartless cold. K'avar hisses in irritation as he backs away slowly from the deceased, his pale blue eyes staring directly at the Redguard with eerie lifelessness, forcing K'avar to look away for a moment. Saban shakes her head and looks around the campsite they have effectively cleared out, wondering to herself. _"He deserved better than this... He was a Hero."_ K'avar laments, remembering the boy's newfound courage to defend his friends and come to the rescue, a dependable soldier in the end who was true to his ideals only to be butchered down like game. _"We''ll honour him, K'avar. He did us proud, he did the Empire proud. We stopped the catapults burning Whiterun, thanks to him. Think what might have happened if he didn't save you there."_ Saban attempts to install some pragmatism into K'avar, an agenda she partially succeeds in as K'avar nods in agreement with her, though remains disheartened by his friend's early grave.

" _Shouldn't there be more of them?"_ Saban asks, inspecting the small campsite the Stormcloaks had prepared their siege weaponry at. K'avar raises a brow and takes the time to make his own investigation into the surprisingly small siege camp, spotting only the equipment made to construct and maintain the catapults. No weapon stockpiles, no medical tents, no strategy maps, nothing. _"You're right... There's no medicine here. No weapons. A small handful of men. Why is this? Why leave this spot so undefended? Won't they need a fallback point?"_ The Redguards stood in silence, contemplating the reasoning for this so poorly conceived camp. _"Unless..."_

" _Unless what?"_

" _...They have another hidden camp, somewhere we weren't expecting. They could flank the garrison or even find another way into the city. Do we know of any other entrances? Sewer pipes, things like that?"_

" _That would have been in the briefing by Legate Cipius. The only way into Whiterun is through the main gates."_ K'avar considers the possibilities as does Saban, though neither make a confirmation of anything beyond their next step. _"We need to report this to him."_

" _We have nothing -to- report! We can tell him our suspicions and that will get us where, exactly? We need evidence if we're going to report anything at all!"_ Before the discussion goes any further, the distant sound of a war horn sirens from the East. They look to the horizon and see an approaching force of Stormcloak soldiers mounted on horseback, armed with halberds, longbows, shields, all manner of weaponry at their disposal as they begin to march with haste towards Whiterun. Their plan became as clear as the northern ice: Weaken the garrison with siege machinations and an initial onslaught, tire out the defenders until fresh, combat-ready soldiers arrived to finish the job with ease, without exhaustion or wounds to burden their performances. K'avar and Saban looked on with disdain, fearful for the strength of the defences their allies had constructed throughout the day prior to the battle. _"We need to do something... What can we do?"_ Saban asks, a question that K'avar fails to answer. What can two soldiers do against a fresh formidable force amidst a warzone?

The men and women holding the fortifications to Whiterun look to the direction of the horn, spotting the glow of torchlight and the sound of marching boots and horseshoes rapidly approaching. Commander Caius gulps and looks to his men, gripping his blade with fervour. _"The night has only just begun, soldiers... Make every arrow count, strike true with every swing of the blade. We will NOT let them win...!"_ Never one to shy away from his duties as the Commander of the Whiterun Guard, Caius braces himself for a second wave of skirmishers seeking to wreak havoc upon his home. _"Commander, the townsfolk are safe. Where do you need me?"_ A man's voice resonates behind Caius, much to his relief. _"Gjalder! I'm glad you're here. Enemy reinforcements are coming... I will not lie, we may not be able to hold this bridge from them. We need to ensure we thin out as many of them as we can. If they breach the gates in full force, the city may be lost. I cannot allow that!"_

" _I understand Commander. I'm with you to the bitter end."_ Gjalder states, emboldening his mind and reaching for his steel War Axe. Caius nods to his capable and loyal soldier, their eyes averted to the coming rebel assailants, their minds racing and hearts beating furiously, even as their restless bodies begin to tire and pay heed to wounds sustained. Many soldiers lay in crude, makeshift medical tents to receive immediate attention from the initial marauders, now they must face a new threat altogether to their home? The battle looks to be in poor favour for the Imperials, may the Stormcloaks besiege Whiterun successfully? Will the golden drapes of the proud stallion be burnt to cinders to allow totems of Windhelm's blue bear to dominate the tundra? The answer will be revealed by the break of dawn, if anybody survives to tell the tale.


	4. Chapter 4: The Battle for Whiterun

**A/N: Well, hi there. It's been a while hasn't it? I'm still alive, so sorry for not updating more of this story! I've still got lots of it planned, don't worry! Apologies for disappointing anyone, lots was going on and had other focuses for a while, didn't get around to coming back to Songs of Skyrim here. But, one lovely TheRealityBreaker gave me a kick in the butt to get writing again. :D**

 **One of the aforementioned focuses is a Twitch channel! Should anybody watching want to tune in for a stream or two, feel free! I'll leave the links to my media on my profile page!**

 **Again, so sorry for taking so long to update this! :c Will strive to be better going forward! You're all awesome~!**

 **Sorry if it feels like a short one. :3**

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 **4E 201, 7th of Rain's Hand, the darkest hour of night.**

 **The Battle for Whiterun**

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Harrowing roars of blood-thirst and hunger for carnage drown out all senses as the Stormcloak reinforcements lay siege to the battered defences of the Imperial Garrison. Horses charge through the worn palisades, steel axes and blades carve through the remnants of Whiterun's exterior defenders without mercy. Wounded soldiers attempting to flee from the aggressors meet their swift ends with axes, swords, hammers and arrows breaking bones and puncturing flesh, letting their already damaged and broken bodies slump to the mud below. Ulfric's rebels pass through to the raised drawbridge – the final line before the Stormcloaks take to the streets to do battle with their sworn enemies. Commander Caius looks on in horror at the onslaught before Whiterun's gates, the curved road that once allowed travelers, traders and honourable citizens wander through their humble city is now painted crimson with the blood of his comrades: Imperial and Stormcloak corpses stretching far and wide along the stony roads. Smoke rises from what damage the catapults had launched into the city before they conveniently ceased their aerial rampage. Caius furrows his brow with spite and anger, looking to the capable men at his side protecting the drawbridge mechanism. _"They've got only one way up here, the stairs at the guard tower. We will NOT let them lower this bridge! If we die here we die protecting our home, our families!"_ Commander Caius bashes his chest with a firm fist, receiving a uniformed salute from his squadron of Whiterun's finest.

Time was of the essence, the rebels had an objective to win in the name of their High King, the soldiers of Whiterun were ready to cleave flesh from bone to avenge their fallen and protect their homes. Moments of haunting silence filled the battlement before a sudden crescendo of battle-cries rung out from tempered lungs, as Stormcloaks flooded the staircase to reach the drawbridge mechanism Caius and his squad guarded. Heavy thuds and bangs rang out in parallel with squelches of swords piercing skin and releasing blood onto the steel. A line of Stormcloaks barraging the Whiterun defenders stood out at the battlements as Gjalder watched from behind hesitating. His eyes drifted between the men before him, risking their lives in the name of duty and the Stormcloaks, who are willing to shed blood to ensure that their true High King, Ulfric Stormcloak, stands above Skyrim as her leader and protector. A conflict arises within him, one that will shake the foundations of what he believed in and the future that awaited him. He wasted little time, as Gjalder found his axe being raised and come crashing down to sever the ropes that bound the drawbridge mechanism, allowing the Stormcloaks to charge through to the city gates. Caius turns around and glares at Gjalder with contempt, hissing at him. _"WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?!"_ He declares, only to receive a kick to the chest from Gjalder who looks at him with a neutral expression, neither remorse nor empathy in his eyes. _"Whiterun -needs- the Stormcloaks, it needs to be free from the clutches of the Imperials!"_ Caius scowls at Gjalder as Stormcloaks surround him, seeking to execute the Commander but they look upon Gjalder who spares them the task, though he fails to murder the Commander he ensures that he cannot pursue them. Gjalder brings his axe to the downed man's knee, a strike that makes Caius howl in pain and clutch his wound, breathing deeply with sweat dripping down his aged face, venom then escapes his tongue. _"You traitorous bastard...!"_ He spits out, as Gjalder and the Stormcloaks beside him descend the tower stairs to join the rest of the forces: A city awaits the banner of Eastmarch's azure bear. _"Get the battering ram ready!"_ A rebel officer exclaims, commanding the Stormcloaks to prepare themselves for a siege into the city itself, soon to be flying a new banner under Ulfric's name.

The heavy, unmistakable sound of a drawbridge swiftly crashing into the ground spelled out one thing for the soldiers behind the city gates: The Stormcloaks have braved the first line of defence. Now the war came to the streets, the men behind Whiterun's ancient walls could only hope that the rebels were honourable enough to spare the citizens such carnage as they pillage the streets of this fair city. Deep, resounding thuds and creaks of the city's wooden doors rumble with rage as the Stormcloaks prepare to breach the barricaded entrance and take over the city in the name of their rebellion. Jarl Balgruuf snarls at the sight of the heavy doors croaking and losing their strength to the might of the rebel's siege. He turns to the men and women at his back, drawing his steel longsword and the axe he offered to Ulfric, only to have it return back to his hand. _"You are soldiers of Whiterun! No matter who or what comes through that gate, you will stand your ground!"_ Throughout the Jarl's speech, the gates continue to crumble and wither, unable to withstand such unrelenting temper that barrages them. _"These -Stormcloaks- want to pillage our home, hurt our loved ones! Nay! Not while I am the Jarl of Whiterun! So long as there is breath in my body, this city will belong to US!"_ The gates loudly twist and contort with fracturing splinters of wood sent flying through the air as one more crushing blow will sunder the once sturdy blockade, allowing the Stormcloaks to freely pour into the streets. _"Let's show Ulfric what happens when he threatens our home!"_ The Jarl and his soldiers roar with camaraderie as they band together to protect those they call family from the skirmish of rebellion. Celina smirks before looking to her contingency of Legionnaires, barking an order to them. _"Line Defence, shields up! Break their advance!"_ As her voice rings in the ears of the soldiers, their shields raise and join together to form a barrier of Imperial grace, silver shields with crimson decorations and the Akaviri Dragon symbol adorned at the centre of it make for a formation worthy of the Emperor's gaze and smile. The gates suffer one final assault from the battering ram before they splinter completely, showing the defenders the reinforced Stormcloak units charging into the city and over the entrance bridge to slaughter the opposition.

The rebels find themselves at a disadvantage immediately, the city's natural bridge adjacent to the gates means they have to tunnel their forces or risk jumping into the drains below, which then forces them to climb and be vulnerable to death from above. With little choice, the Stormcloaks rush over the bridge to charge at the line of shields that protects the defenders. As their blades scratch the surface of the Imperial bulwark, the Legionnaires surprise the rebels with an advancing shield bash, to push them back and make way for an impending slaughter. _"FOR WHITERUN!"_ Jarl Balgruuf roars with fury as do his men, all of them taking advantage of the stunted Stormcloaks to unleash a flurry of swords and axes upon their hides. Balgruuf''s sword locks against a rebel's only for him to swing his axe into the man's throat, causing the foe to choke on his own blood and drop to the ground as the first to fall to Balgruuf's axe, he certainly won't be the last as the Jarl unleashes his fury onto the Stormcloaks who dared to defile his home, carving warriors to pieces with a fervour often heard in the man's voice but never truly witnessed until the call to arms beckoned him in the field.

" _We have to do something... We can't just stay here!"_ Young Alain proclaims to his family as they together sit beside the fireplace in their home. Anya looks to him worriedly but her father Ambroise is the first to respond to the glory-desperate lad. _"This is not our fight son. The Empire is more than a match for these Stormcloak rebels, they are the Emperor's Legion."_ Ambroise explains, tenderly grasping his wife Belene's hand to comfort her in the dark hour. _"But I want to serve the Legion! I want to fight!"_ Alain laments, crossing his arms in a fit of boyish pride. _"There is no glory in this rebellion Alain, now enough!"_ Ambroise raises his voice, forcing his son to heed his authority as a father and as the patriarch of their family. Alain scoffs and walks to his quarters, slamming the stylish wooden door behind him. Anya sighs to herself, looking to the fireplace idly stroking the sleeve of her pearly white nightgown. Tensions arise in the Vanne household as they sit in silence, merely gazing into the flickering embers that illuminate their humble abode, unable to sleep to the sounds of warfare and conflict occurring in their very streets. Alain exits his bedroom with a steel longsword in his hand, much to the shock of his family. _"ALAIN! Where did you get that?!"_ Belene screams in horror, watching her son armed with a blade. _"I'm going to fight."_ Alain clarifies, removing the locks put up on their front door to exit into the streets. _"ALAIN!"_ Ambroise beckons the young man several times to no avail, causing the boy's family great concern for his safety. Anya grasps her agape jaw and recoils in fear for her brother as Ambroise grunts and proceeds to his own quarters upstairs. _"Mother, what are we going to do?!"_ Anya shouts to her parent worryingly, though heavy footsteps resound from above as Ambroise descends the stairs... Armed with a silver longsword, stylishly engraved in ceremonial markings and décor. It sends a shiver down Anya's spine as she inspects the blade, wondering why her father even -owns- such an exquisite and rare weapon. _"Lock the doors behind me Belene, do not open them for ANYONE unless you hear my voice!"_ Belene looks on in mass confusion, possibly thinking the same as her daughter but before any questions can be asked, Ambroise closes the door behind him seeking to find his son before the war takes him away.

Alain rushes to the scene of the conflict, looking in shock at the carnage unfolding in the Plains District: Stormcloak warriors unleashing a wild fury upon the defending soldiers, Imperial legionnaires delivering precise impales and slashes to the aggressors that attack them, blood and bodies everywhere at the gates of the city. At the centre of the fray lay Jarl Balgruuf who gleefully cuts down Stormcloak rebels with Irileth standing at his back, together slaughtering the foes as a team bound by blood and honour until the very end. The sight of the actual carnage made Alain's stomach quiver in fear as he felt sick to behold such gruesome sights, the sounds of dying men and women made him frightened to even hold his sword and the stench of the fallen began to make his head spin. Celina executes a Stormcloak she engages in battle with, disarming him with a furious shield bash before twirling her body to deliver a fatal spinning slash to the stomach of the rebel, who falls backwards to the ground bleeding out. She notices the young auburn-haired Alain approaching from the Cloud District's northern steps and gasps, rushing to approach him and challenge his stupidity. _"Alain! What in Stendarr's name are you doing out here?! Get back to your home right now!"_ She hisses, turning around to see if any Stormcloaks sought to stab her in the back. Alain stutters and looks to Celina, mumbling. _"I... I... I did-... I wanted to..."_

" _Gods above Alain! This is no place for you! Get back to your home at once! That's an order citizen!"_

" _I just... I- Celina!"_ Alain tried to sheepishly respond, but his eyes caught two Stormcloaks trying to rush Celina whose attention alternated between the boy and the war. Celina swiftly turned to the approaching enemies and narrowly avoids a blade reaching her spine with a brutal shield bash to disorient the aggressor. Her longsword is then raised to clash against the second rebel's, a flurry of steel awaits the man as Celina's techniques of unbridled sword torrents come into action: A swift horizontal slash to deter the enemy's strike and a blow sped with Kyne's fury returns in the opposite direction to carve open a deep crevice into the Stormcloak's chest, splitting apart his leather armour and causing blood to pour from the open wound. The second Stormcloak tries to pummel Celina's shield blockage to no avail, perhaps underestimating the crimson vixen's strength as she easily holds her own against the man. Celina quickly grows tired of the fray and delivers a vicious shield strike to allow her an opening to drive her longsword into the enemy's throat, making him croak in agony before the fatal blow ended his existence.

Celia retracts her longsword from the enemy's throat, causing his bloodied cadaver to heavily slump to the ground with a loud thud, metallic rustles from the man's equipment becoming the final sound he makes before the silence of the grave overwhelms his remains. She looks to Alain with heavy breaths, pacing herself to speak plainly and as direct as she can so the youngster can comprehend the brevity of the situation. _"Alain... Don't make me repeat myself. Go home. Protect your loved ones."_ The Breton stutters a respond with his hand trembling, barely able to keep a firm grip upon the hilt of his blade. _"But... I- I'm not a coward... I can fight...!"_ He protests, much to the chagrin of Celina. _"Prove to me you can fight: Protect your sister, your parents. Go home. When the battle is over, we can train. I'll test your mettle, but don't risk your life in this war!"_ Her booming voice bestows an aura of command to Alain, who slowly begins to step backwards and return to his home district. Celina sighs with relief, glad that she managed to talk some sense into the eager boy, her attention then diverts to the ongoing battle in the centre of the Plains District to which she readies her blade and charges forward into the fray. Alain looks back to the sight of men and women battling in his home, shaking and wondering if he can prove his worth to his peers: That he isn't some glory-seeking child wanting to show his talents, that his desire to fight for the Empire is as true as each morning's sunrise. His eyes scan the soldiers defending his home, risking their lives for a country that does not belong to them, fighting those who feel the exact opposite notion. Alain nods to himself, reaffirming his conviction to serve the Emperor by rushing back to the battlefield. Ambroise appears at the top of the Cloud District's stairs, looking down on the skirmishes below. _"ALAIN!"_ He shouts, hoping his son is nearby to hear his father's worried voice to no avail. Grunting, he draws closer to the battle hoping to find his son nearby.

" _Push forward boys! Get past their lines and the city is ours!"_ A Stormcloak Officer shouts to his men and women, seeking to give them that one last push to overcome the Imperial dogs and take Whiterun for the true High King. Gjalder joins a squad of rebels that rush through the broken gates, following through with his betrayal to aid the Stormcloaks over his own city. The capable Nord, having been spotted now by his former comrades marching with Stormcloak soldiers elects to target them first, almost as if demonstrating his commitment to the cause. His steel axe comes crashing into the shoulder of a Whiterun guardsman, crushing the bones beneath his flesh and incapacitating him, before Gjalder pulls out the axe with a wet squelch of bleeding skin and torn muscles to lodge the crescent blade into the guard's neck, ending his service and his life. Gjalder's azure blue eyes land upon the Jarl himself, in battle with his newfound comrades. A bout of determination, or perhaps brash recklessness fills his core and he finds himself heading straight for Jarl Balgruuf, who sees the oncoming traitor and aggressively snarls, raising his blade to block the axe strike Gjalder hoped to deliver. Balgruuf locks blades with the man and challenges him there and then as they enter a contest of strength, to see who can overwhelm the opponent first. _"You?! A Stormcloak?! I thought better of you, traitorous bastard!"_ Gjalder grunts and pushes his weapon forward to try and gain a hand over the older Jarl, who despite the advances of age holds his own extremely well against the younger man in his prime, dangerously so. He tries to intimidate the Jarl with his freshly revealed loyalties, hoping to deter the man's resolve as to gain an advantage in psychic warfare. _"Your rule is failing, Balgruuf! Skyrim belongs to High King Ulfric, he will not cower to the Elves who banned the worship of mighty Talos!"_ Gjalder's plan, ultimately, works against him as his words only infuriate the easily provoked Balgruuf, who gifts the younger man with a vicious headbutt that knocks him down to the ground with ease. _"Foolish whoreson! You -dare- to challenge ME? I am Jarl Balgruuf! Come at me then Stormcloak bastard!"_ The Jarl proclaims, giving the younger man no time at all to recover as he raises his war-axe with the intent to slaughter Gjalder for his treasonous acts. The axe strike is narrowly dodged by Gjalder who rolls to the side, allowing it to hit the dirt floor where he once laid with a heavy thud, dividing the soil with a vicious scar. The Jarl quickly turns the fight from a battle into a chase, haunting Gjalder wherever he stumbles with axe blows or blade flourishes that he must swiftly avoid in a barrage of rage and anger, all the while taunting the cocky young man. _"IS THIS THE MIGHT OF THE STORMCLOAKS?! FACE ME YOU COWARD!"_ Gjalder attempts to swing his axe yet Balgruuf is quick to block it with his longsword, leaving his axe free to swing and cleave Gjalder, however he is evaded by the younger Nord even if only narrowly: The axe's rounded blade is mere inches away from splitting his gullet in half, a fortunate stroke of luck for the younger Nord who thought he could challenge his Jarl and prevail with ease, a near fatal mistake on his end.

Alain firmly clasps the hilt of his blade, now teetering on the edge of the Imperial backline looking for an opening to wedge himself into to join the fray noisily unfurling before him. Up close and personal with the stench of death: the sickly scent of blood stains the air and invades Alain's nostrils which churn his stomach and shake his nerves, yet he takes a deep breath and holds his sword close to heart seeking his chance to prove his worth as a Legionnaire. His eyes spot a lone guardsman in conflict with a Stormcloak rebel, exchanging blows and putting steel and iron together with a rage rivalling gladiators from the both of them. With enough distance for him to feel secure enough, Alain charges on with the intent of dispatching the Stormcloak to help his home's soldier prevail, a feat that in his eyes would show he is capable of fending off rebels and protecting his home and enforcing his beliefs. As the young soldier-to-be marches on, the Stormcloak gains an upper hand against the Whiterun Guardsman and eliminates him with a stomach-piercing stab, plunging the entirety of his iron longsword inside of the man to the point that the cross-guard pushes into the guard's armour. Alain freezes on the spot, panicking as the Stormcloak looks at him. The assailant's face is shrouded by the face-guard of his helmet, yet he does not mercilessly cut the boy down but instead warns him. _"Boy, go home before you die a child."_

" _I... I'll not let you take my city...!"_ Alain defiantly responds, shakily holding out his longsword to attempt a duel with the trained, hardened rebel. _"There's no honour in killing a young pup. Leave. I won't warn you again lad."_ The Stormcloak insists but Alain hears none of it, swinging the longsword into the man's direction only for it to be countered with a blade flourish, pressing the edge of the sword against the incoming weapon followed by a horizontal thrust, allowing the cross-guard to come into contact with the opponent's weapon as his blade slides along it, disarming the Breton with ease. Alain gasps and finds himself unable to process how swiftly he lost his weapon, eyes dead-set upon the armed and dangerous Stormcloak infront of him. Afraid, trembling, the rebel steps forward but merely kicks the boy to the ground with a solid boot to the chest. He contemplates on what to do for a small moment, strike the boy down or walk away, leave him to his own devices? His time to decide is cut short however as Ambroise charges him from the side with a surprise attack, cleaving his engraved silver sword within the rebel's waist, forcing him down to the ground as blood pours out as if he were a spilled pitcher of wine. _"ALAIN!"_

" _Father! What-"_

" _Get back home NOW you stupid boy!"_ Ambroise howls to his son, turning his back however as clankering footsteps approach, a fellow rebel who watched his comrade get taken down by this apparent civilian. Rushing in to avenge his fallen friend, the Stormcloak attempts an overhead vertical slash onto the Breton patriarch but finds within him a capable fighter, Ambroise side-steps to evade the strike and unleashes a responsive three-strike flurry, intending to skewer the assailant with at least one of them. The Stormcloak is prepared for combat however and deftly blocks the first two slashes, back-stepping on the third before lunging forward with an over-the-shoulder diagonal slice intended for Ambroise, who runs into the trajectory of the weapon only to lay his silver sword against the strike, defending himself from a killing blow with a master's level of combat awareness. The fight is no longer a mere battle, for Ambroise this feels more like a duel as he expertly weaves silver through the air and against the iron war hound before him. Alain runs up the stairs into the Wind District, finding a seat on a bench beneath the city's majestic Gildergreen tree, trying desperately to steady his breathing after his reckless endeavour, worrying that he's gotten his father in danger needlessly.

A bellowing horn rings out from beyond Whiterun's walls, with the echoing roars of men and women sounding the retreat. A fierce battle had been carried out in the city and before its gates, but the Stormcloaks appear outmatched against the Legion's superior military training, causing the rebel leaders to get away and accept the sting of defeat. Everyone pauses and looks around as the retreat begins, but many Stormcloaks are too surrounded by Legionnaires to get away so easily, dropping their blades, axes and raising their arms skyward to surrender. Ambroise looks into the mask of the Stormcloak who laid siege to him, pointing the silver blade to the rebel's throat. Without a word, the assailant nodded and threw his weapons to the ground, leaving himself to the mercy of his captors.

Gjalder took the opportunity to dart past his escaping Stormcloaks, evading the enraged Jarl who aggressively marched forward to try and take him out right there on the spot, only to lose him in the hordes of Stormcloaks who were allowed to leave the city. _"YOU WILL NEVER SET FOOT IN MY HOLD AGAIN, TRAITOR! I'LL SET THE BIGGEST BOUNTY ON YOUR HEAD WHORESON!"_ Jarl Balgruuf relentlessly shouts to the traitor fleeing from his city, though its soon replaced by cheers of victory from the surviving soldiers and guardsmen standing within the city. Metallic rustles of fleeing Stormcloaks ring out loudly as horses breigh in the fading night, the hours of the night spend defending the city and cutting down rebellious men and women must take a toll on those who cut down such young lives unnecessarily. The misery of the dark is at an end however, with the first light of dawn beginning to pierce the midnight veil and illuminate the death and destruction within the city's stone walls. Burnt buildings, bodies of Imperials and rebels alike littering the Plains District, arrows protruding from the rooftops and walls of people's homes who wanted no part in this destructive war. Such is the tragedy of conflict, it is a field ripe for the reaper whom savours the seeds planted and enjoys a bountiful harvest of Tamriel's young killing one another over ideals.

* * *

 **4E 201, 8th of Rain's Hand, morning sunrise.**

" _We should be arriving at Markarth in a few minutes Nairume."_ The flowing Altmer said to her twin, who smiles with a nod thrown in her direction. _"Do we have any idea who it is we're looking for?"_ Nairume asks, strange considering they have had plenty of time to discuss the finer details of their assignment even before departing. _"Vandalion gave me the details regarding the target. Bosmer male, medium length brown hair, hazel coloured eyes, narrow facial structure. He's the one supposedly from the Embassy."_ Naylarie responds, squeezing the reins of her steed to steady the beast's movements. _"That bastard never tells me anything..."_

" _That's because he barely trusts us. He only tells me because you're more timid Nairume."_

" _Wha- Hey! What's that supposed to mean?"_ Nairume asks, pouting at her twin. Naylarie simply smiles softly and steers her horse to the side in order to gallop side by side with her sister, reaching out towards her hair to stroke the silky mane tenderly, tucking some of the hair behind her ear. _"It means out of the two of us, you're the better sister."_ Naylarie announces with gentle whispers, causing Nairume to frown at her disapprovingly. _"Don't say things like that, you know I couldn't handle serving Vandalion without you."_

" _You and me both."_ Naylarie responds, smiling at her twin. Some small measure of time passes before the twins reel in the reins of their horses, for the mighty golden doors of Markarth lay beneath their elven eyes glistening beneath the sunlight, gleaming as a jewel embedded within the mountains. The twins disembark and leave their horses at the stables, approaching the large Dwemer gates to access the city's marketplace first and foremost which now rustles with activity and life, everyday folk visiting the humble stalls of meat, jewels, clothing, trinkets and other manners of miscellaneous stock to spend hard-earned coin on. The river that runs through Markarth flickers gently with an aquatic rush, reminiscent of peaceful waves riding a lake through the wilderness, it makes for a serene melody were it not for distant clanks of metal against metal, the smiths outside of Cidna Mine ever working hard and sullying the tranquility found within the stony capital.

" _Now, where to look..."_ Naylarie speaks aloud, looking across the marketplace with her arms folded across her breastplate. _"Where do you find a renegade in a city like this?"_ Nairume taps her chin in thought. _"Markarth has a Thalmor Justiciar stationed in the Keep, right? We can talk to them for some help."_

" _Good idea, I've never been to Markarth, no idea where I'm going."_ Naylarie responds to her twin's proposal, the duo marching throughout the stony streets headed for Understone Keep. They take in their surroundings with a pleasant smile, despite the nature of their assignment under an arrogant and cruel master, their company lifts one another's spirits and the environment of the city is a pleasant atmosphere to behold with fresh mountain air filling the lungs, lest they find themselves at the smithy's where only smoke and coal enters the nostrils. _"It's beautiful here."_ Nairume comments idly, watching the tall buildings cast shadows down onto the streets. _"Yeah, it is. Lovely city. You can see the Dwemer architecture in the buildings."_ Naylarie responds, a casual smirk on her small, defined lips. _"Definitely, it's most obvious in the metalworks. No other culture can so expertly weave these golden structures. A shame nobody knows what happened to the Dwemer."_ The softer twin laments, she and her sister appear to lack the superiority complex most Altmer seem to be born with, no delusions of being a better species than the rest of Nirn's inhabitants but rather they live their lives humbly and grounded in realism. _"Maybe they got bored of Tamriel."_ Naylarie idly comments with a smirk, causing a playful scoff to resound from her more eager sister. _"Bored? Please, life has never been so exciting around here: There's a civil war over religion, Dragons have returned, the supposed 'Dragonborn' is apparently roaming around Skyrim fighting the said Dragons. How interesting is -that- ?"_

" _Oh I hear so many reports from citizens claiming to have met the Dragonborn, helping them with their everyday troubles. I doubt if the Dragonborn was really here, they'd spend their time fetching lost friends or hunting books down for someone."_ The two sisters share a genuine, pleasant laughter on their journey to Understone Keep, finding ways to make their lives better without the Thalmor supremacists breathing down their necks constantly, nor the undesirable influence of Vandalion.

The duo finally reach Understone Keep, pushing the doors wide open to enter the building that aptly earned its name for the Jarl's Throne is embedded within the mountain, sending a chilling breeze to the girls as they enter the Keep. The ladies approach the Throne Room that stands amidst rocky crevices and rough, uneven flooring, perched onto stone steps leading to the carved out Throne heralded by burning metal braziers. It takes no time at all to spot the Thalmor Justiciar patrolling the Jarl's seat. Clad in the same black robes as Vandalion adorned in golden tassels and weaving, a handsome Altmer man with rich, defined lips greets the women with a flamboyant wave. _"My ladies, welcome to this grotesque rubble of a city. My name is Ondolemar, I run the Thalmor operations within and throughout Markarth. Yes, you may adore my stature, it is to be expected."_

" _My name is Naylarie, my twin here is Nairume. We are here on behalf of Justiciar Vandelion, hunting a fugitive that is responsible for theft and murder of Thalmor property and personnel. Bosmer male, narrow features, medium length brown hair, hazel coloured eyes. Have you seen anyone fitting this description?"_ Ondolemar strokes his chin in thought for a few moments, looking between the beautiful twins. _"Hmm. Nothing immediately comes to my mind. Perhaps there is something to be found in my patrol's reports. Allow me a moment to task someone this duty. Please, come into my office and share my exquisite wine. Imported from the Summerset Isles: You cannot expect me to drink the Dreugh piss that these Nords call 'wine'. Preposterious."_

" _That's a nice offer, but we -really- need to find this culprit..."_ Naylarie objected, but Ondolemar swiftly interjected once again. _"Pish-posh, my reports are undeniable and they will produce results befitting your search. Stay, enjoy the wine from our homeland and then you will have your quarry."_ Ondolemar approaches one of his two guards standing before the Jarl's Throne, poking one on the breastplate as he addresses him. _"You there, I want the reports of citizens coming and going from the city in the last fourty-eight hours and I want them on my desk yesterday. Now, get moving immediately!"_ Silently the Thalmor guard salutes Ondolemar and rushes towards the Altmer's makeshift office in the mountain Keep to gather the aforementioned reports. While they wait, the trio of Elves sit down on stony stools and each hold a glass of delicate crimson wine while a stone fireplace flickers with powerful flames to enrich the room with a very comfortable, homestead sensation, certainly providing warmth from the brisk temperatures of Markarth's mountainous weather.

" _Theft and murder, you say?"_ Ondolemar inquires, sipping his red wine casually with a nonchalant demeanour. _"Yes, that's what I said earlier."_

" _I would've imagined a being, Mer or otherwise, capable of stealing or even killing a member of the Thalmor would be on the highest of wanted lists. Why in Auriel's name have I not heard of this Mer? Care to indulge me ladies?"_ He looks between the twins expecting them to answer him immediately, though Nairume opens her lips to answer first. _"It is a recent occurrence, word will likely reach all of the Thalmor operatives across Skyrim before the day is out."_ She states with a polite, quiet tone of voice. _"I see... Whom has he killed? Anyone important to the Dominion?"_

" _I would argue that -everyone- is important to the Dominion..."_ Nairume remarks to the Justiciar, though he appears to deny that ideology. _"Come now dear: Certain individuals are expendable, that is why their services are accepted with the end intention of disposing them when their services become invalid. Surely you are not naïve enough to believe otherwise? Regardless I take it an expendable asset has been eliminated. Still, we cannot let the common folk see this, it makes us look weak if our own can be so easily cut down."_ The twins raise a brow and awkwardly let silence fill the air, allowing Ondolemar to enjoy his wine and the girls their own company. _"What is this Bosmer's name, anyway?"_ Ondolemar asks casually to the twins, Naylarie takes the plunge and responds. _"Aradriel."_

" _Doesn't sound familiar to me, but we'll see if anybody has come through here with that name in the registry. I'll have some cells prepared."_

" _Grand... We've been riding for hours, all through the night. Is there anywhere we can sleep?"_

" _There are some quarters in the back, you'll both be rather comfortable. I've made sure my offices and the quarters surrounding them are befitting enough for an Altmer. As much as this peasant fortress can muster at least."_

" _Thanks... We'll get to it. Come on Nairume, I don't want to chase down this Bosmer half asleep."_ Naylarie laments, nudging her head to suggest her sister follows her. The twins arrive to the adjacent sleeping quarters but looking around, there are several guards stationed around the Thalmor's headquarters in Markarth, seemingly gaining the ire of Naylarie. Nairume shushes her and wraps her slender arms around her sister's shoulders to give her a soft, caring cuddle. _"Hey, don't worry... I'll see you after we wake up, hm?"_ Naylarie is forced to smile and nod at her, returning the gentle hug with her own embrace coiling around her sister's frame. The twins enter their rooms and remove their stylish, eloquent armour that resembles the stained glass in temples devoted to the Divines, laying their heads onto a relatively soft bag used as a pillow with green linen bedrolls to cover over their lithe bodies, it may not be the grand silks at the Thalmor Embassy or perhaps even Solitude, but at least it's a solid bed, no campsites made in the wilderness or sleeping under the stars. After such a night of riding in the cold frost, a linen bedroll feels like a dream come true for the elegant sisters.


End file.
